


Rally Cap

by littlerumbird



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-magical AU, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerumbird/pseuds/littlerumbird
Summary: Rumbelle-centric AU. Paton Rumfield is a single father doing his best to raise his seven year son, who is enamored with baseball. Coach Bell was nothing like he expected. And Paton has never felt more out of his league. This will be a multi-chapter fic, currently with 19 written chapters and counting.





	1. Chapter 1

“Easy, open your eye slowly,” Belle directed, cupping the small chin and examining the darkening bruise. She loved coaching, and she always felt horrible when any of her players was injured. Worse when it was a child. Worst of all when it was so early in a season that they hadn’t even played a game, yet. “How’s it feel?”

The little boy gave a small smile. “It doesn’t hurt too much.”

Her finger ghosted over the purpling skin, just far enough aside to catch the cheekbone, low enough he might have escaped a black eye. “How does a juice box sound?” She was trying to keep him occupied and wondered if she should try calling a parent again. Practice had ended twenty minutes ago, and the only other child from the team still around was a little girl named Moraine, who was at the concession stand with her mother.

“Bae?” the male voice behind them startled Belle, and she twisted with a small frown. “This is—“

“Papa!” the boy exclaimed, jumping up and immediately throwing his arms around the man in an impeccable Armani suit, with no regard whatsoever for the dust coating his practice clothes.

Belle rose, frown fixed in place as the boy she knew as Neal was clearly right at home with this man. His father? Possibly grandfather? She could never tell these days. Four practices and the tragically clumsy boy was nearly always dropped off and collected by either his mother (who Belle privately cared little to spend much time around), or more often by a dark haired woman always toting a little dirty-blonde haired girl barely under the peewee team’s age minimum. 

The man was patting the boy’s back gently while giving Belle a piercing glare. “Where is Coach Bell?” he asked sharply.

She stood to her full five foot two, bristling. “Wh—“

“Coach Bell,” came the clipped reply. “It’s not a difficult question, dearie.” He stepped back, hand cupping the small chin in much the same manner as she had when the accident first happened a several times since. “Bae, where is your coach? I’d like an account of this.”

The boy nodded toward her. “Right there, papa. I missed the ground ball.”

“I should say so,” he agreed dryly, before turning his glare back on the woman before him. 

“I’m Belle, the coach for the Aces. Unfortunately, the ball got the best of Neal about forty minutes ago in practice. The grounder he mentioned, caught the tip of his glove and caught him on the cheek. I’m terribly sorry, but he should be fine in a few days once the bruise fades.” She shifted slightly, irritated that this man left her rushing to explain herself like she had somehow done something wrong. 

He dusted a hand over the bench and took a seat, one hand on his son’s shoulder to gently steer the boy toward him. It was strange to see such a man, so brisk and cool toward her, taking such care and such gentleness in each gesture. He peered into the boy’s eyes, then looked carefully around the eye.

“He hasn’t displayed any signs of concussion,” Belle supplied. “No head ache, bruising shouldn’t even lead to a black eye…” That piercing look again left her silenced. She bit her bottom lip and zipped up the bag containing the practice balls, glancing around for debris in their dug out, even though she’d had the team clean it immediately after practice now a full half hour ago. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cassidy, we called the number left on the permission slips, but we only reached voicemail.” She had, in fact, left two voicemails. A quick glance to her phone confirmed no missed calls.

“Rumfield,” he replied, the words sounding automatic and making her blink in surprise. “Cassidy is my ex-wife’s surname. Bae, please wait in the car.”

The boy side stepped his father and wrapped his arms around Belle, taking her by surprise when he gave her a quick hug. “Bye, Coach Belle, see you next week.”

“Bye,” she murmured, careful not to squeeze too tightly. “Ice that bruise again when you get home.”

His grin was priceless as he scooped up his small bag and his little glove that was horribly stiff with newness and mostly responsible for the boy missing the ball in the first place. It was brand-name and hard to handle until it was properly broken in. The rest of the team was using donated gloves, all well-used.

“Coach Belle?” the man asked quietly, standing easily and giving her a shrewd once-over.

“Yes,” came her confident reply, squaring her shoulders and bracing much in the same way she’d braced herself every time she played catcher and was facing a runner determined to plow her way through to home base. 

He pulled a card from his pocket and a pen, quickly scratching out a number. “This is my number, please use it should there be a need in the future,” came the business-like reply. “Milah, Bae’s mother, isn’t known for her efficiency. I can assure you I will always answer.”

Relief flooded her, he wasn’t blaming her. And she could appreciate parents who actually took initiative. Much of this awkward conversation could’ve been avoided had she been given his number on the waiver of liability and registration forms. “I-I’m sorry, I thought his name was Neal?” she asked cautiously.

“His middle name, yes. As I said, my card. Please add me as a contact. And may I have the contact for the director of the program?”

She blinked in surprise, having barely accepted the card and pausing mid-motion of tucking it into her bag. “Well, my contact numb—“

“The director, please,” he repeated shortly, last word dragged out in a way that was far from pleasing. “I have a call to make to his pediatrician concerning that bruise.”

Belle took several moments to scramble for a pen and paper before accepting the engraved pen and small notepad he offered, fumbling with the pen’s unfamiliar weight to scrawl a number and a single name. She returned both as quickly as she could, schooling her features to calm professionalism. “I’m glad you plan to have his injury checked. Please let our director know when his doctor allows him to resume practice.”

“Your director will be hearing from me,” he answered succinctly, tucking the information into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Good day, Coach Belle.”

“Goodbye,” she replied, managing to save the sigh until he was in his car. With a grunt of irritation, Belle shouldered the ball bag and quickly carried it to the trunk of her car. Two more trips and she had the bats and her own bag accounted for, though her knee had begun to ache steadily in the last ten minutes. They were due for rain tonight for sure. And she would be due a call from one Mr. Rumfield. Hopefully, he would forgive her when he discovered the number was her own. Belle French, director and founder of the “Step Up to the Plate” program. She’d originally created the foundation to expose children in impoverished areas to the sport of baseball, in an attempt to escape the all too familiar world of demanding parents and indulged children. It was alright, though. She’d handled countless parents like Mr. Rumfield both in her years associated with baseball.

Climbing into her car, she caught sight of the time and cursed roundly. Five twenty seven. Twenty seven minutes after she was to meet her stylist to ready for tonight’s charity event. As if on cue, her phone rang, and Belle turned over the engine, scooping up the phone and hitting the speaker button. “Carmine, I’m on my way!” she promised. “Ten minutes, tops!”


	2. chapter 2

Paton Rumfield straightened his tie and couldn’t resist the urge to check his phone for the umpteenth time since arriving at the benefit. Despite the doctor’s assurances that it was a bruise and would completely heal in a week or so, Paton wished he had skipped tonight altogether. It wasn’t like he couldn’t simply send in a generous check tomorrow.

Music was coming from the main hall, and he knew the social hour was his best bet to slip away. A short hallway took him to a quiet alcove, and he flipped open his phone and his speed dial number two.

“Hello Mr. Rumfield,” came the warm voice at the other end. “Did you leave something at the house?” Leave it to Bae’s nanny to immediately assume the best. Mary Margaret Nolan was the best nanny that Paton had ever found. 

After a series of employees that simply weren’t suited for the job, he’d found her quite by accident at the park one day. He’d hired her immediately, beyond pleased when he’d learned that her qualifications not only included a current AMA First Aid and CPR certification but also a bachelor’s degree in early childhood education. She’d left her teaching job that summer and hadn’t blinked twice about it.

He shook his head, trying to clear it from the ridiculous concerns that had crowded it only moments ago. “No, no, nothing like that. Is, ah, Bae doing well?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied cheerfully. “He’s busy looking at some books Emma found at the library today. I can put him on if you like?”

“No need,” the words tumbled out before Paton had time to process them, and he was glad she couldn’t see his flush of embarrassment. Of course Mary Margaret would call if Bae needed him, if the boy showed the slightest signs of anything being wrong. She was the one that caught it when he had the flu last year and strep before that, not to mention the rash that turned out to be a mild allergy to wool. 

“We’re fine, and he’s playing a little quieter tonight, but he’s usually pretty tired after his baseball practices,” she assured. “If anything comes up, we’ll call immediately.”

“Thank you,” he managed. It was ridiculous. Of course she would call. And of course she eased the conversation to a close when his brain wasn’t working to do so. He could hear her husband saying something in the background, and he had enough presence of mind to send regards to the young man. The Nolans were practically second family to Bae. Privately, Paton sometimes thought they were far better parents than he was.

With a scowl at his reflection in the mirror, he tucked away his phone and straightened himself, hands running over non-existent wrinkles in his trousers. A compromise was in order—he would collect himself, manage an hour and a half here and then return to the Nolans to bring Bae home and tuck him into bed himself. Just grab a drink from the open bar, make his way back to his table slowly enough to stretch out the final fifteen minutes of social hour, and then he could coast through dinner and slip out before dessert was served. It was a game plan.

Finding the bar wasn’t difficult. The appetizers were decent, and it wasn’t long before he had a nice glass of pinot noir. Drinks made everything easier, not only for the soothing effects of alcohol but simply to have something to occupy his hands. Stalling a few extra moments, he took his time finding his table and finally slipped into his seat just before the owner of the city’s baseball team, a tall and solidly built man, took the stage to welcome everyone.

“Excuse me,” came a rushed voice, feminine and something about it familiar.

With a start, Paton turned to see a stunning blonde attempting to squeeze past his chair. He took hold of his seat and scooted forward, allowing enough space that she slipped past and easily took the seat beside him. It was something in her demeanor that made him take a second look, and his mouth dropped slightly, suddenly torn between her and the man on stage.

“—please give a hand to my daughter, Belle, and her group for all of their tireless work in our community—“

Belle was on her feet a moment later, brushing back a stray tendril of curled hair that had somehow escaped the clasp that held back the rest of her locks. She was wearing a gown the color of champagne, light fabric that clung to her gentle curves and looked nothing like the coach in the dugout.

“you… you’re,” he sputtered quietly, scowling slightly as he turned to ignore the man whose focus was already turning to the board of directors at another table nearby.

“Coach Belle,” she murmured, taking the napkin and dropping it into her lap before she took a long sip from her water glass.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed softly, glad for now that the chair on the other side of both of them remained empty for now. Everyone else seemed enamored with a short PR film that was now beginning, the lights lowered.

She gave him a small smile, straightening slightly in her seat. “Attending a charity event, same as you.” Her hand, much more delicate than it seemed holding an equipment bag, now reached out in greeting. “Belle French, founder and director of the peewee league and other recreation leagues for Step Up to the Plate,” she finished easily. 

Paton stared at the hand, finally giving his head a slight shake as if that might bring things back into something he might recognize as order. “He’s… Maurice French is—“

“My father. Owner of the Knights,” she murmured, leaning back slightly as the salads were served. 

He managed to close his mouth and shifted in his chair slightly. “You might’ve mentioned that.” A glance toward her revealed that she had wasted no time in digging into her meal. 

She swallowed a generous bite of salad and took another sip of water before answering quietly, “Well, you didn’t exactly give me an opportunity to mention much of anything, now did you.”

It wasn’t a question, and Paton didn’t bother attempting a reply. “It’s not every day a father happens upon his son with a nasty looking bruise.” He really didn’t know what he hoped to gain with the comment, but the words were out of his mouth before he really considered them.

Her defensive expression wasn’t going to help matters. “I called the number your ex-wife listed,” came her soft answer, tucking away another bite of salad.

“My ex-wife, whom I am sure will have any number of questions about Bae’s bruise when he goes to her home next weekend.” He wasn’t sure why these comments kept slipping out. Other than his lawyer and one (disastrous) attempt at seeing a counselor, Paton kept the details of his private life just that—private. Particularly the complicated divorce settlement. The one that included a generous child-support check that seemed to go directly to Milah and her latest boyfriend. 

She set down her fork at this and straightened, turning more fully to regard him, and Paton was taken aback as the lights came up and he suddenly realized how intensely blue her eyes were. “I’m sorry, I’d be glad to speak to her myself. I did leave a message, two actually, with her immediately after it happened.”

Paton had the decency to look away. “You did, I’d forgotten, what with all the rush after his practice,” he conceded. “I’m sure it will be… fine.” It wouldn’t but it certainly would be helped by the fact that Belle had called. And that the bruise would be on its way to fading before Milah saw their son. He shook his head as if to dismiss the conversation entirely. “You did…”

The room began to fill slowly with conversation again, and before he knew quite what had happened, Maurice was taking the seat on the other side of Belle. It seemed the seat beside him was to remain empty. It was a relief, really, to be spared half the usual small talk. Belle tucked into the main course with gusto, and he took his time with each bite. A perfectly valid excuse to avoid conversation.

Beside Belle, Maurice carried the bulk of the small talk, Belle nodding when appropriate and throwing comments every so often. Good. Paton could handle this. A little longer to eat the well-seasoned meal before him, and then he would slip away under the guise of a call.

It was a good plan. And he almost managed to execute it, dabbing his mouth with his napkin and with manners that would do Dear Abby proud apologizing for the need to check on his boy. He made out of the room and halfway down the hall before his name stopped him.

“Mr… Rumfield?” She was two feet behind him and hurrying to catch up. This time he was struck by how petite she really was. She’d seemed bigger, somehow, in the dugout. Paton was short for a man, and even he was taller. “I, ah, didn’t take the opportunity to ask after your son. I hope you’re not leaving because of his injury?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. Maybe he wasn’t a smooth at this as he thought. “I shouldn’t have come tonight,” he answered, half to himself. “Bae is, as you said, going to be fine.”

Her relief was evident, and it made him wonder why he hadn’t mentioned it to her sooner. Perhaps because he had been so surprised to see her in the first place. “Good,” she breathed, toeing out of shoes that he was surprised to note were flats. Most women used any opportunity to wear heels. “I hope you’ll let him continue to play? The other children really enjoy him. He’s always so cheerful.”

Perhaps he had overreacted earlier today. He’d simply been so concerned for his son. “He loves baseball. I wouldn’t pull him from the team,” came the quiet promise. “See you at practice, Miss French.”

She gave a nod and a soft smile. “Tell him to keep his eye on the ball.”

His chin lifted in agreement, a half smile forming at her words before he could help himself. Eye on the ball, indeed. Turning now, he returned to his plan. It was time to go home.


	3. chapter 3

He had barely climbed out of his Lexus when Paton stopped short and stared at the scene before him. Something like a dozen children were spread across the field, four in the outfield and one of those seemed preoccupied with another team at practice in the adjoining field. He spotted Bae’s bright blue Knights baseball cap at third base, though it was clear his son wasn’t going to see any excitement in his area of the field any time soon. 

A little girl was hunched over the plate, bat held at an odd angle while Belle manned the pitcher’s mound. Their coach called for everyone to hold up and crossed toward home plate. She adjusted the girl’s helmet and urged her back a foot before adjusting the girl’s grip and stance.

Before he really realized he was moving, Paton found himself wandering toward the bleachers. A mother and her two younger children occupied one end, and a young woman that might have been a mother or an older sister sat a few rows up. Both gave him a curious look, and he was thankful he’d at least changed into worn jeans before coming this time. He was very aware at how conspicuous his high-end car was in this area.

“Papa!” came the cheerful shout, a small glove waving from third base.  
He lifted his hand to return the gesture, realizing that Belle was now also aware of his presence, along with a very tall man stepping from the dugout to talk to the next player to bat. Practice, as Paton quickly learned, was a painstaking process and required the patience of saints and seemingly made as much difference as continental drift.

Despite the many encouraging remarks of both coaches, Paton couldn’t see an ounce of improvement when practice finally wound down and the children began to collect the last stray ball and the rest of the equipment. Before he could collect Bae, however, it seemed a hearty snack was in order. He waited patiently through crackers and fresh fruit and a juice box and the cleanup that ensued. At least it was apparent they had cleaned up after themselves.

“Didja see how far I threw the ball?” his son asked excitedly, exuding all the energy that Paton found himself jealous of each morning while he downed a cup of coffee in hopes of matching a fraction of it.

He smiled indulgently. “Yes, I saw. Why don’t you say good-bye to your friends while I talk to Coach Belle for a minute?”

The boy shrugged. “Okay.”

Paton skirted the dugout to reach the field and was about to call to the coach when the man from earlier strode across the field and wrapped his arms around Belle’s middle and lifted her easily off the ground.

“Garrett, put me down!” she protest one hand pushing ineffectively until he eased her to her feet, fingers playing at her collar before pulling at something Paton couldn’t see.

He was torn between stepping forward and saying something and knowing it really wasn’t any of his business. Before he could step forward, Bae was at his side begging to run the bases one more time. “Have at it,” he answered, giving him a gentle push forward.

Garrett held her a moment longer, trying to steal a kiss that landed on her cheek. Paton quickly turned his attention to his boy, who was rounding second with a grin and a big wave.

“All the way in!” Belle hollered with a laugh, her arm lifting to rub at her cheek and clearly not looking in Garrett’s direction. She moved toward Paton, snagging the water bottle she’d wedged between links of the fence. “I wish I had half that energy,” she said quietly for his ears.

“Mhmm,” Paton agreed, trying for casual himself as he leaned against the fence. “I noticed he’s not throwing as far as some of the other children.” It was a bit blunt, but he saw little help for it. Bae would be running to them in a few moments, and he knew how much his son always seemed to try for his approval. It wouldn’t matter much to Paton how well Bae did or didn’t throw, except that playing was so terribly important to his son.

She shrugged slightly. “He’s already improved from first practice. The basic throw we practiced there at the end should help. If he’s interested, practice during the week. If he’s not, don’t push him.” Deep blue eyes turned fully on him, earnest and garnering his full attention along with the thin golden chain hanging from her neck, a glittering diamond ring hanging from it. 

Oh. 

“Mr. Rumfield?” she asked, and only then did he realize he’d missed something.

“Paton, please,” he almost stammered, straightening slightly as if to shake himself back to focus on her words. He was nearly staring, and the ring dangled low, and it wasn’t in the least bit appropriate. Catching himself a half second before what might be mistaken for leering, his eyes met hers again. “I’m sorry, which throw?”

She glanced around, waving at a few more children as they ran to meet family members and head home. “Here,” Belle strode into the dugout and returned with two gloves, both that had seen quite a bit of baseball. “Stand about twenty feet over there,” she nodded behind him.

He wasn’t really sure how he came to be standing parallel to the baseline with a ball flying toward his face. Paton flinched, stepping aside and barely managing to get the glove open in time for the ball to sting through the thin leather.

“Sorry about that, thought you were ready,” she called sincerely. “Toss it back, and I’ll show you again.”

Paton fished out the ball and gave it a toss, grimacing when it went far enough left that she had to jog to the side and stretch to snag it.

A giggle came from the dugout. It shouldn’t have bothered him in the least, but Paton felt his face heat anyway. “He missed!”

Belle was turning on her heel in an instant, “Phillip, you owe him an apology,” she scolded in a non-nonsense voice. “He wasn’t ready for my throw, and we don’t make fun of people on this team.”

The boy dropped his head and scuffed at the concrete floor and managed a quiet, “Sorry.”

“Please take the trash bag to the big bin, and then it looks like your mother is ready,” Belle directed, clearly not impressed with the reply the boy had given. “We’ll start over next practice. Next time you’ll have to run bases and explain to your mother why you made fun of someone.” She waited until the boy was on his way before turning her attention back to Paton, giving him time to fully collect himself.

Bae hugged the post of the fence and watched on at the short lesson. It involved standing perpendicular to his target, gloved hand extended toward her. She patiently explained that he was to point with the glove where he wanted the ball to go, then throw with his dominant hand. Paton had been surprised at how the simple change resulted in the ball sailing almost effortlessly into the pocket of her glove.

He took a few more moments to be sure he understood the technique, privately vowing to practice with his boy every day the child was interested. “Thanks,” he finally said when it was clear his son was losing interest, his own stomach growling for supper.

She gave him a broad smile and started to collect the bags of equipment. Paton shouldered the surprisingly heavy bag that held the bats while motioning for Bae to grab his own things. “Mr—ah, Paton, you pick up fast. Would you, perhaps, have some free time and be interested in helping out at the practices? There’s so much to work on, even when Garrett is here and can take a few kids to work with.”

The question caught him by surprise, and he was torn between not knowing what to expect with his work schedule the next few weeks. Business could take him in dozens of directions any day. Not to mention that he had no earthly idea what he would do on a baseball field with this odd collection of five to seven year olds. But his boy was giving him that hopeful look, all big eyes, and when he glanced over at Belle, he couldn’t stop the words tumbling from his lips before his brain had time to process their meaning. “Why not.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Blue Belle, get your shiny lil butt front and center!” came the loud voice, echoing through the living room. If the voice wasn’t enough of an announcement, the staccato sound of killer heels would’ve been more than enough to let Belle know that Ruby Lucas had let herself in.

Belle sighed and stretched slightly, adjusting the pillow under her leg. Practice had hit her hard, and she’d barely managed to drag herself into the shower and down a protein bar before caving to the after effects of a long day on her feet. “In here!” she answered from her couch, yawning hugely as Ruby rounded the corner, hand on one hip. 

“Girl, you’re not even dressed—scratch that, you haven’t even done your hair or make up!” she exclaimed, perfectly red lips twisting into a wince of sympathy. “Flare up?”

She nodded, gesturing to her knee in futility. “Lot of running around today and the first practice of the season that I really pitched. I meant to text, but I think I crashed after my shower.” 

“Pain meds?” her friend asked, already moving in the direction of the master suite. It didn’t take any explaining, and on evenings like this, Belle was simply grateful she wasn’t going to be raked over the coals for bailing on girl’s night.

Usually Thursday night was theirs, often going out for drinks and dinner. Sometimes a movie. On occasion Ruby could talk her into visiting a club. From the looks of things, Ruby had been scheming to talk her into visiting a club tonight. She wore hot pants, a top that Belle would never feel comfortable wearing, and her deadliest heels.

Belle nodded to the question. “You can check the fridge, maybe you can at least enjoy a few shots.” Unfortunately, pain medication and alcohol didn’t mix. “Please tell me your team hasn’t seen you in that get up. Their parents would shield their eyes.”

Ruby laughed, returning a few moments later with the single pill and a bottle of water. “Your team is gonna go running for the hills when they play against the Wolves.” They had played together in college for two seasons, roomed together through every training camp, all away games and most of college. Ruby had played short stop, and she was the best Belle ever played with at cutting off runners.

She didn’t bother to rise to the bait. Honestly, with the way things were shaping up on her team, they would be lucky to win half of their games. “It’s not meant to be competitive,” she sulked. And it was true. But Belle could never fully escape the part of her that was competitive. It’s what had driven her to spend years playing little league baseball, enduring the boys club and constant need to prove she could handle the intensity of the sport at that level.

“I know,” Ruby sighed, holding up her hands in surrender. She fluffed up the pillow under Belle’s leg and fished out the heating pad, turning it on low and wrapping it around her friend’s foot. “Where’s that fiancé of yours when we need him?”

The words were innocent enough, but Belle cringed and busied herself with adjusting the heating pad.

“Spill it,” her friend demanded, taking the rest of the couch and spreading out languidly. “What did he do now?”

She picked at a loose thread in her old raglan t-shirt and sighed, eyes locked on the fabric. There was no point in avoiding the conversation. As skilled as Ruby had once been on field, she was beyond masterful at getting the full story. It was a matter of time before she caved, so she swallowed and gave her friend a side-long glance. “I… don’t think it’s going to work out with Garrett.”

Dark brows furrowed. “What do you mean work out? You’ve been engaged to him for, like, a year and a half now. What’s there to work out? He’s hot and mostly nice, and he likes baseball…”

Belle gave a half shrug. “I think I need to talk to a professional about this. But I mean… we don’t have much else in common except baseball. We don’t really… work.”

Ruby’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This sounds like a longer story than that. Here’s what’s going to happen—I’m going to change into those god-awful sweats you keep, order up some Chinese take-out, and then sit here and paint your toes while you spill. And I might need a drink.” The last line went without saying.

It was easy to agree to take-out. The sweats weren’t a big deal, either, except that even with her relatively long legs for her short stature, any pair of trousers or slacks that Ruby borrowed inevitably became capris. But that was Ruby’s problem. “Make sure you order up some dim-sum and sushi,” was her only request. “Oh, and grab my blue nail polish. None of that siren-red crap you use on your nails.”

“You’ll take the red crap you’re given and be grateful,” her best friend retorted, sticking out her tongue as she scooped up the phone to place their order. If Belle had been hoping to stall, it didn’t gain her much time. When Ruby Lucas had a plan, she worked fast.

In ten minutes she was back, easing up the foot propped on the pillows and sliding into the opposite end of the couch. She tsk-ed over the swelling and discoloration as she examined Belle’s problematic left knee. “Girl, you should be icing this down.” It was nice to have someone else around to offer a little TLC. Ruby had unearthed the kinesthetic tape and was already cutting the strips and wrapping it around the worst spots. “Can’t your doctor do anything else with this? It’s not usually this swollen.”

Belle sighed, flinching when skilled fingers brushed a particularly tender spot. “My father wants me to go to some doctor at Johns Hopkins that’s supposedly pioneered a new technique.” Her eyes met her friends, and she made a face. “Honestly, it’s not that bad. And the heat feels better right now. I’ll ice it later.” She hated the ice, and through her years of sports injuries she had good reason.

“It’s not that great, either,” Ruby corrected, settling the heating pad back around it and shaking the bottle of nail polish. “But I know how much you hate the poking and prodding.” They’d both had their share of injuries over years of playing, but Belle’s had been the worst and left her with chronic tendinitis and an occasional limp after long days on her feet. “Now… Garrett.”

She bit her bottom lip, searching for a starting point. Really, even a middle point would do.

“You’re still engaged, aren’t you?” came the suspicious question. When Belle didn’t immediately reply, her friend held up the chain with her engagement ring hanging from it. “Belle…”

“Sort of?” she ventured with a shrug, fingers combing through her almost dry hair.

Ruby snorted. “How can you be sort of engaged? It’s like being preggo—you are or you aren’t—Oh my god, are you pregnant!”

“No!” Belle quickly retorted. “Definitely, definitely not.”

Black lined eyes narrowed, and Ruby turned to fully face her. “No, really, is that why you’re acting weird about this? You’re sure you’re not—“

“I’m not,” she insisted, arms crossing defensively. “One hundred percent not. It’s impossible.”

The dark head shook slightly. “Birth control’s really good these days, but it’s not a hundred percent. Nothing is unless—.” She broke off suddenly and straightened a little, head tilting to regard Belle. “Unless you two haven’t… I mean, okay, so maybe it’s been a while? For you and Garrett?”

“A while,” Belle managed. “I mean…”

“You two haven’t…” She spread her hands expansively. It was the conversation that Belle had always managed to avoid, even with Ruby. Her father most definitely had not once ever wanted to discuss the birds or the bees. Health classes, biology, Ruby, and media had provided her with the necessary details for a rudimentary understanding of the ‘Miracle of Life.’ In fact, Ruby had been the one to teach her how to put a condom on, using the infamous banana demonstration. 

Belle shrugged again. “Kind of…”

“Again, Bells, parts of, pieces of, all of… All things I can understand, but you can’t kind of have sex. You mean you two never have? Done the deed?”

“Yes, but we don’t really work like that. I mean, he does. He likes spending time doing that. But, I don’t really get the big deal…”

Ruby’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t make sure you’re taken care of? Because we need to have a serious talk if—“

“No, not that, but,” Belle interrupted. “I mean, I don’t really, you know, haven’t ever been interested in all that like you are.” Or like most people were. There was so many other interesting things happening, interesting things to be doing and talking about. “I get that a lot of people are pretty or handsome or whatever. Attractive. But when you say someone is ‘hot’ or whatever, it doesn’t really mean much to me.” She waved at the bottle of nail polish. “You know what, never mind, my foot hurts, and Garrett and I haven’t even gone on a date in two weeks, and I think he’d be better off with someone else anyway.”

Ruby’s head shook hard. “He’s lucky as hell to have you,” she insisted, “and I’m not saying that because you’re my best friend. Has Garrett pressure you about it?”

She traced an idle pattern in the fabric of her sofa. “Not like forcing me or whatever. But he wants more, a lot more. And I don’t really care about it. We don’t work. And I think he’s more interested in his friends at Tipping Point anyway.” Belle wasn’t stupid. While she didn’t go looking for gossip, she’d heard plenty of rumors about her so-called fiancé being spotted at one of the most exclusive clubs in town. Spotting doing more than having a drink and dancing.

“Okay, that’s it,” Ruby declared, pushing to her feet. “Where’s your old Louisville slugger? We have a Hummer to visit.”

Belle caught her arm and yanked her back down on the couch. “Granny would have your ass if she has to bail you out for that.”

“What makes you think I’ll get caught?” her friend asked archly, eye brow lifting in challenge. It wasn’t smart to challenge or dare Ruby to do anything.

“It’s not worth it,” Belle countered.

“He’s not worth it. But the cause is great.” Ruby grinned broadly, her grin when she knew she was right and not a single person in the world could dare tell her otherwise.

Belle reached over and gave her wrist a soft squeeze. “Thank you.” The words nearly caught in her throat, and she was surprised at the emotion. Her father was protective, yes. Maurice French was very protective. But Ruby’s loyalty was something else altogether. “But you have a job to do. You promised me red toes.”

“Demanding,” her friend chided with a laugh, starting to open the bottle when the buzzer rang. “New plan: food then pedi.” She returned with plates and food, making a quick trip into the kitchen for a beer for her and more water for Belle before resuming her sprawl. “Belle?”

“Hmm?” she asked, in the middle of a California roll. The rice was perfectly sticky, flavors melding neatly and reminding Belle of exactly why this was her favorite.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t understand? Okay, maybe not understand, but, you know, respect?” Ruby looked genuinely wounded, and it was rare for her to show this side of herself. Ruby was the life of the party, carefree, wild. The first in their group of friends to get a boyfriend, and a piercing, and a tattoo, and, well, more or less everything. The only other times Belle had seen her friend so transparent were the three times she was dumped and the week after their final ski trip. They rarely talked about that night. Exuberant was a mask her friend wore well.

Belle shook her head and swallowed the mouthful. “I’ve never really talked to anyone about… that. No one really seems to get it. Garrett and I need to talk—really talk. Maybe after little league season’s over. I think he knows this isn’t going to work out. It was really more convenience for both of us.” She shrugged.

“Sorry, Bells,” Ruby sighed. “If you need to talk about it again… I’m here, yeah?”

Her first ghost of a smile since practice appeared, and Belle nodded. “Thanks.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Papa, can we goooooo?” Bae grabbed his arm and leaned as far as he could, his knees sagging.

He shook his head and gently pulled him back on his feet. “We are here to find equipment that you need to play baseball. If you want to continue to play, then you need to practice a wee bit of patience,” Paton explained. “And you know better than to pull on people’s clothes. We take care of our things.”

His son stared at the floor and shifted from foot to foot. “Sorry.”

“Thank you, now why don’t you pick out two shirts from the shelves over there,” Paton suggested, nodding toward an array of brightly colored boy’s shirts that happened to be on sale. His son was growing like a weed, and he could use them. “Whichever two colors you’d like. Make sure they are medium—which starts with?”

“M,” Bae answered with a smile. “Then am I going to mom’s house?”

He tried to hide the scowl, but he didn’t quite manage it. “Not this weekend, but remember we have practice tomorrow?”

“Oh, right.”

It wasn’t right. Paton knew it, and he knew that Bae knew it. When he had divorced Milah their son was two. Originally the custody agreement was an even split of time, and he had agreed to cover seventy percent of his son’s needs, in accordance with his job. But weeks were shifted at whim, and more often than not, his son was with him. If it didn’t bother Bae that his mother seemed happier when he wasn’t around, then Paton wouldn’t have minded in the least. If he were being honest, he would admit that he preferred his son stay with him these days. He couldn’t think of a single point in favor of his ex-wife or the man she was dating these days. Over the last year, it had slowly evolved into Milah having Bae for every other weekend. 

“Mom probably had to go somewhere with Killian,” was the dismissive answer.  
Paton caught his son’s shoulder gently and turned him to face him, trying very hard to keep the next question as casual as possible. “Does she go places with Killian a lot when you’re with her?”

He shrugged, already glancing in the direction of the brightly colored shirts. “Sometimes. I went with them last time to the park.”

“Did you have fun playing with your mom at the park?”

“She talked a lot to him. But it was okay because Wendy was there, and she’s really nice and pretty, too.”

He was already making a mental note to find out more from Milah later about this. “Is Wendy his daughter?” If it was, some important details were missing on the information Paton had dredged up on the man. He had told himself it was perfectly reasonable to run some quiet background checks. After all, he’d done exactly the same thing before hiring Mrs. Nolan to watch his son.

Bae shook his head, pushing back a dark lock that fell in his eyes. He needed a haircut, but his son refused to go. He claimed that he wanted to grow his hair out more like his papa. Milah hated it, but he knew she wouldn’t have the patience to put up with a tantrum at the hairdresser. That had happened exactly once and she had informed him that haircuts were now his problem to deal with. “Wendy’s his friend. She talked to me a lot, and we played on the swings, and she’s small enough she could chase me through the tunnels and stuff that the grownups couldn’t fit through.”

Leave it to his ex-wife to bring a babysitter along on one of the approximately five days she had with her son each month. He should be livid, but at the moment it wasn’t worth his energy. “Okay, you have two shirts to pick out, and I need to talk to someone about a glove.”

“Are you getting me a broken glove?” came the curious question.

Paton’s brow wrinkled as he tried to place the question. “What do you mean broken?”

Bae shrugged. “I dunno, but Coach Belle said my glove’s hard to use, and I need a broken one. Sometimes I borrow an extra instead.”

“I’ll… ask someone about that,” he replied. “Two shirts. Which size?” he prompted, nodding toward the display.

“Medium with an M.”

Paton watched his son as he fished out his phone and found the contact. Hoping this would be nothing like the moment when he fumbled the throw at practice, he braced himself as the other end rang. A second ring. He didn’t know if he was relieved or if it was worse that she didn’t answer. “Hello, Miss Fren—uh, Coach Belle, this is Paton Rumfield, Bae’s father. I had a question about his glove that I wanted to ask, whenever you have a moment. I’m not understanding him, something about a broken glove. Anyway, so sorry to bother you, we’re at the sporting good store, and, ah, I suppose I can catch you at practice.” He was rambling now, and he felt his face heat slightly, glad when he remembered that no one in ear shot had any idea who he was calling. “Right, see you then.” He quickly disconnected the call, wishing he could simply erase the message.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and made his way to the adult size gloves, giving them a good going over. Various colors and styles were spread out before him, and Paton had no idea why he had imagined he would simply pick up a glove to practice with. To begin with, he really didn’t have the faintest idea which brand was worth the investment. Closing his eyes, he reached forward and took the first his hand touched. It was black and seemed respectable enough. Perhaps he might even find someone who worked in this blasted store to ask.

The buzzing phone in his pocket caught him by surprised, and he nearly dropped it as he pulled it out. He tried to keep it on vibrate or silent when Bae was with him, not wishing to seem like all he did was work. Belle. “H-hello?”

“Hi, sorry I missed your call,” she greeted warmly. “I would’ve waited til practice, but you said you were at the store—“

“Yes, yes,” he practically babbled, biting his lip to keep from further making a fool of himself. She was clearly wrapped up, quite literally the other day, with a fellow. The ring around her neck spoke volumes. Besides, he was what? Fifteen years her senior. More than that, chided reality.

“I told Bae he needs to break in his glove. New leather is really stiff, and he’s missing plays. It’s also one of the reasons why he got that bruise—well, and the glove position when he tried to make the catch, but we’re working on that. I can show you that, too.”

Paton glanced around, thankful that this section of the store seemed deserted today. He caught sight of his son, who was still occupied with narrowing down his shirt choices. “I’d appreciate it. About the glove—how does one break in a glove?”

She gave a laugh, but it wasn’t mocking. “There are a lot ways. Some people put it between a mattress and box spring, some take the long way and practice a lot with it. Whatever you do, don’t put it in the oven or microwave—“

“The what?” he asked in surprise, lowering his voice when he saw Bae’s head turn in his direction.

“You’d be amazed what people do. Oils can make it really heavy—the leather really soaks it up. It’s a little weird, but I like using lanolin.”

He smiled. “I have some at home.”

“Lanolin?” she asked in surprise.

“I work with antiques, it’s useful,” was his simple reply, noting that Bae had finally settled on an obnoxiously bright orange shirt and a blue one and was returning to him.

“That’ll do. Work a small amount into the outer glove, especially in the pocket and outside of the fingers.”

“One more question,” he quickly put in. “Is there a particular brand you recommend? I need a glove myself if I’m to practice with Bae.”

“Rawlings are nice,” Belle answered, a smile in her voice, “but I really love my Wilson glove. Either will be great. It’s an investment, but worth it. Oh, make sure you get an outfielder or infielder’s glove—the longer looking ones. Infielder’s glove is probably just fine. But don’t grab a round one. Round ones are for catchers.”

He quickly returned the one he had chosen to the shelf, quickly realizing it was round. Just to the left was one marked infielder. He grabbed it and glanced around, pleased to see no one had spotted his mistake. “I can appreciate a long-term investment.” He wasn’t sure why he had said that. Nor was he sure why the smile on his face was growing. She was in a relationship. And years younger. “Thank you very much, we’ll see you at practice.”

“Bye, Paton. Tell Bae hello from me.” And there it was. The reason why she’d won him over so easily. His boy.

“Bye,” was all the managed before ending the call and pocketing his phone. “All set?”

Bae nodded, holding up his choices.

“Good man,” Paton praised. He held up his new glove. “Did you bring your wallet?”

His son laughed loudly. “Noooo, Papa. You have to buy it yourself.”

Wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders, he steered him toward the cash registers. “I hope I saved enough allowance.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Who was that?” Ruby demanded, tossing a dress toward her friend.

Belle made a face at the clingy fabric. “There is no way I’m wearing this.”

“Try it on first, and who was that?” the brunette demanded, reaching for the phone.

She tucked it into her pocket. “A parent.”

That insufferable eyebrow raised in challenge. Ruby Lucas better be thankful she was, essentially, a life-long friend at this point. Because anybody else would’ve been told exactly what they could do with that look. “What?” she asked, eyes rolling.

“A male parent?” she prodded. It wasn’t a judgement, more like a wolf sniffing out what she thought might be a juicy secret.

Belle flushed a little, shrugging and trying for casual. “Yes, as a matter of fact. This particular parent is male.” It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like she was going to lie about it and make it a bigger deal. When the silence stretched, she glanced up to see the open stare. “What?”

“Your rule. You never ever give out your cell phone number to parents.” It was true. She’d learned that the hard way, long before she coached the peewee team each spring.

“So I made a mistake.” She didn’t make mistakes with this. But to be fair, Paton Rumfield had asked for the number of the director. And maybe she’d written her cell by mistake, but maybe some little part of her had wanted him to have her direct number.

Ruby gave her a hard stare that said she wasn’t buying anything Belle was selling. “You don’t make mistakes like that. Is he attractive?”

“Ruby!” she exclaimed, more shocked to realize she had, on some level, found the father appealing. Yes, he’d mentioned an ex-wife, but for all she knew, he could’ve remarried. Belle had yet to think to look for a wedding ring. Not that rings said much, considering her own engagement ring was stowed in the small velvet box atop her dresser. There was really no point in continuing that farce any further. “He called to ask me about gloves. That’s all.”

Her friend was busy sorting through another rack of dresses, handing over four to add to the other five already draped over Belle’s arm. “Is the kid a brat?”

“No,” she answered sincerely this time. “Neal’s the sweetest. He can’t field the ball, and he might hit one in nine pitches I throw at him, but he’s always cheering the other kids on. And he tries so hard. It’s really cute.”

“So the dad’s ugly. Or an ass?”

She shrugged again. “He’s a very caring father who wants the best for his kid. He needed to know how to break in the glove and what brands were best. And he’s possibly helping with practice.”

Ruby rounded the clothing rack and took two of the dresses from the bottom to return to the rack. “I thought Garrett was your assistant coach?”

“He is. But he’s not always there, at least not mentally,” Belle admitted.

“I could’ve told you that,” came the muttered retort.

She chose to ignore it. Ruby had liked Garrett when Belle first started dating him. He was energetic and always had plans, and when he went all in for a party, he was all in. She couldn’t really fault him. He remembered anniversaries and dates. He did all the right things, for the most part, but somewhere along the lines it seemed to be unraveling. Maybe it was because he was traveling with the Knights, working with P.R. “We’ve had parents wanted to get involved before. This one actually has the time to do something. And he’ll show up to the practices.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I did manage to take care of myself before you and your granny came along,” Belle countered. It was endearing, really, to have such a protective friend. But she knew what she was doing. And she was done with talking about this for now. “Why don’t we grab lunch instead?”

The dark head shook hard. “No way. You need more in your wardrobe than team shirts and raglan t-shirts and soffee shorts and jeans of various sizes and styles. We’re not leaving with less than one dress.” A manicured hand squeezed her shoulder and turned her toward the dressing room. “French, you’re on deck,” she barked with a laugh, swatting at Belle’s rear. “Get in there.”

 

*** *** ***

Belle squared her shoulders as she entered the restaurant, determined to say what needed to be said. She’d let Ruby stuff her into a dress for the occasion, though it was a fairly modest (considering who had pulled it from the rack) little black dress. In fact, she’d even let Ruby style her hair into a sleek side pony tail, the length trailing down tumbled in soft curls over her shoulder. The rest of this, however, was up to her.

The Maître D was already at the hostess stand, waiting for her. He gave a polite smile and gestured toward the private booth near the back. Her usual spot at Giuseppe’s. “Right this way, Miss French.” 

 

“Thank you,” she murmured, thankful for the cushion of plush carpet under her shoes. She hadn’t needed to argue with Ruby about shoes tonight. Her entire wardrobe consisted of flats. In her younger days, Belle had hated heels. She was short, and no amount of shoe was going to change that fact. Her foot injuries over the years had only given further validity to her preference. “I’m sure Gar—“

“Hello, princess.” Before she could finish the sentence, Belle stopped short to see her father unfolding himself from the booth. He stepped forward, arms wrapping her in a warm hug.

“Dad!” she exclaimed, returning the hug and pushing onto her toes to drop a kiss to his cheek. “I, ah, didn’t realize you were joining us.” The whole plan was crumbling before her—the idea to ask the waiter to give them privacy, not coming for their order until Belle had the talk that needed to happen. She couldn’t wait a few more months for the sake of even the sweetest of little leaguers. Their team wasn’t even competitive. And while Garrett had his moments, he wasn’t making or breaking her team, either. If the distance between them wasn’t enough, a single causal comment she’d overhead as the press corp wandered through had given her the clarity she needed. She was scrambling to sort this, and it took her a moment to realize her father hadn’t paused.

He smiled broadly and waited for her to slide into the seat before taking his own again. “It’s been too long. That fiancé of yours called me up yesterday and asked me to join you two. I ordered a bottle of Riesling. Besides, you get so busy once the season starts. I hardly see you.”

Belle returned the smile. “My office is down the hall,” she reminded gently. It would be rude to pull out her phone and text Ruby, so she busied herself with opening the napkin and settling it into her lap. Maybe she could pull Garrett aside–

“Well, it seems like I hardly see you. You’re always on the go. There he is, my future son-in-law!” her father was up again, embracing Garrett in a bear hug and slapping him on the back. 

Cursing to herself, she barely had time to scoot further into the booth to make room. Trapped, quite literally, in the corner. There was no chance to bring this up in front of her father.

“Sorry I’m running late,” Garrett apologized smoothly. “Traffic was horrible.” He finally slipped in beside Belle, leaning in to take a kiss. “I hope you weren’t waiting on me to order.”

“Of course not, Belle just arrived herself,” Maurice answered. He quickly poured a glass of wine for each of them, calling for a toast before they had even ordered appetizers.

It suddenly occurred to Belle that one of the reasons things had worked so well, thus far, between her and her fiancé was that he kept company so neatly with her father. They had been working together for five years now, dating for the last.. three or four years? Engaged for… a year or something? She was probably the only woman in the world in America who wasn’t sure exactly how long she had been engaged.

“Another!” Garrett called for a second toast before either of the Frenches had finished swallowing their first sip.

“What are we toasting this time?” Maurice asked with a chuckle.

“This beautiful girl and a wedding date!” he announced chest puffing with pride.

Belle gasped, half breathing in the wine and sending herself into a coughing fit. A what? She coughed harder, trying to catch her breath, hand coming to her chest.

Garrett’s hand was on her back now, patting a little harder than she needed, and she reached out for his hand, pushing it back. “S’okay,” she rasped, sucking in a little air and going into another round of coughs that had the waiter stopping to see if everything was alright.

“She choked a little,” Maurice supplied. “We’ll be alright in a few moments.” He leaned forward, clearing the wine glasses out of the way. “Belle?”

She tried to wave off his concern, swallowing and taking a slow sip of water. “Ex-excuse me a moment?” she begged, all but pushing Garrett aside. It took a little maneuvering to slide to the end of the bench, hand grabbing blindly for her clutch. She manage to stand and was clearing her throat as if to prove she wasn’t going to start choking again. She’d never been more thankful that she knew the way through this restaurant. It took only a few moments to reach the restrooms, and she felt calmer with every step.

Sinking into the plush ottoman before the powder table, Belle reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone.

“Did you tell him already?” Ruby answered on the first ring.

She was sure her mouth opened, but nothing came out, and as she stared at the phone Belle felt the first roll of emotion well up and a tear running down her cheek. Nothing about this night was going according to plan. She had been so determined to set things straight, and now she had her father and Garrett waiting for her to return to a nice family meal.

“Belle?”

“Y-yeah,” she stammered.

“What’s wrong? I’m on my way—“

“No,” she breathed, swallowing hard and trying for composure. “My father, he was here, too.”

“He what?”

“Garrett invited him,” Belle began, words falling, knowing if she didn’t get all of this out right this second, she would be babbling in circles for a while. “And they called a toast, and Garrett’s apparently decided on a wedding date.”

“A what?! What day? Did he even ask you?”

“I… I don’t know what date.”

“Belle, sweetie, I don’t… what do you mean you don’t know what date?”

“I don’t know!” she practically shouted, the tears falling freely now. She sniffed and tried to find calm, but it had escaped her grasp. “I don’t know, he just announced it in the middle of the first toast, he’s set a date. I don’t even know when, and I can’t go back out there and talk—“

“Okay, okay, deep breath,” Ruby encouraged. “Please let me come and pick you up?”

She rested an elbow on the edge of the counter, head falling in her hand.

“They’ll want to drive me home. One of them at least… I… I don’t know what to say.” Something between a hiccup and a sob bubbled up, and Belle let it. “If I say I’m not feeling well…”

“Belle, I don’t think you can put off the talk with Garrett until the end of the season,” Ruby stated quietly. “Not when you’re this upset about it.”

Belle hadn’t told her the half of it, yet. And once she did, Ruby was going to hit the roof… but one thing at a time. Her gaze fell to her left hand, and she blinked hard to clear the tears. The whole situation sucked. “He, ah, didn’t even notice I wasn’t wearing my ring. At least, he didn’t say anything about it.” They both knew that Garrett was quick to voice his observations. For better or worse, Belle never really had to wonder what he was thinking because he was so inclined to share.

“Can you text him and tell him you don’t feel well? Ask him to drive you home? You two can finally have the talk. We can get your car later. If you don’t want to do it tonight, then do it soon. Like a band-aid, right off.”

“I took a car service,” she explained. “I think… I think that’s probably best.”

She took a slow breath, head lifting. It took a bit of work to find the tissues and bring her streaked eye make-up back into a semblance of order. “Thanks, Ruby.”

“Call me when you’re home, okay? I’ll come over and we can talk. Or chill.”  
It made her smile despite the fresh wave of tears. “Thanks.”

“Always,” Ruby promised.


	7. Chapter 7

It took a series of texts to her father and Garrett and nearly fifteen minutes before she had gathered herself. Belle stood and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, scooping up her clutch before finally braving the restaurant again. She’d asked Garrett to meet her at the front and drive her home, claiming she didn’t feel well. It was easy to weave her way through the tables at this end of the restaurant, until she caught sight of a familiar face.

Paton Rumfield, seated with a brooding looking man who was as tall as Paton was lean. The other man barely gave her a glance, but Paton’s smile was warm.  
Belle returned a tight smile and a small wave, not wanting to seem rude but ready to have this conversation she was facing over and done with.

“Belle?” She’d almost made it past the bar before the soft Scottish brogue stopped her flat.

“Hello, Paton,” she returned, turning slowly to regard him. 

He stepped forward to close the four feet between them, coming to an immediately halt when she flinched slightly. “Are you alright? You seem upset.”

The emotions were barely under the surface, and she curled her left fingers tightly around her clutch as though it could keep everything in check. “I’m actually heading out, not feeling very well,” she explained, reaching for kind and trusting that she didn’t sound dismissive. “Friend of yours?” she asked, hoping he might change the subject or return to his meal.

“Business associate,” was the explanation. “Jefferson goes to auctions on my behalf.” He shifted slightly, giving her a little more space. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to presume, but are you sure you’re alright.”

“Ready to go?”

She flinched again, surprised to realize that Garrett was standing almost immediately behind her. A glance between to the two men who nodded at one another in recognition left her unsure how to answer. “I… I should go.”

“You’re alright?” Paton was insistent this time, clearly not planning to leave until he felt she was in good hands. It was endearing, and she could push away the strange play of emotions. She needed a good day of rest after all of this.

“Yes, thanks,” she gave a nod and tried to offer a smile. “Have a nice evening.”

He didn’t return the sentiment, and Belle was grateful. It would be foolish to think her evening would be anything like nice, at least not for the next bit. But she hoped she’d feel better about this in a few days.

No words were exchanged on the walk to the car, and later Belle was irritated that Garrett hadn’t bothered to ask if she was okay or if she was feeling any better. Not that it would’ve mattered. She occupied the time by picking at her nails, something Ruby would have a fit if she saw her doing. It was a nervous habit, but it was a step up from actually biting the nails. Knowing Ruby, she’d probably treat her to a mani/pedi this weekend. If Belle had her choice, she would go on a month-long cruise far, far away.

The drive was made in silence, not even the radio running. She felt like she was turning inside out, and Belle forced herself to take slow breaths, fingers clenching and un-clenching around her purse. It was so tempting to text Ruby. She imagined shouting out her objections in one fell swoop. Or jumping out of the car. It wasn’t like her, and she shook off the wild thoughts as they turned off of the main roads. “Can you pull over here?” Belle finally asked as they reached her condo.

“Are you going to be sick?” Garrett automatically asked, already reaching for the power window controls. It was the only comment he’d made since she’d climbed into the cab. His car was his baby–- no food, no brushing her hair inside, and definitely no getting sick in it.

“No,” she answered curtly. “I… I really need to talk to you.”

He shrugged and pulled into an empty space, easing the car into park. “If it’s about the wedding date, we can change it.”

Her head shook slightly in disbelief. “You didn’t even ask me about the date. I still don’t even know when it is.” She unbuckled her seat belt and shifted to better face him, squirming a little in the tightness of the sheath dress. “This isn’t working.”

His brow furrowed, hands spread open, wide. “I said you could change it. But people keep asking, and, God, my mother wants a date. You weren’t picking anything, so I figured we could plan for October after the season ends. Everyone says it takes like six months to plan anyway.”

“At least,” Belle said hollowly, fingers tracing idly over the cool clasp of her clutch.

Garrett frowned. “October 15th, it’s a Friday. What, do you need more time or something?”

Her head shook. The last thing she needed was more time in this relationship. Certainty settled around her now, and she straightened a little. “It’s not working, Garrett,” she stated quietly. “I think we both know that.”

He sighed, sinking back into the driver’s seat. “So pick a different day.”

“We aren’t working,” she clarified. “We’re not on the same page about anything. We barely text each other five or six times this week. Our dates are, what, food? Baseball. Work.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, hand tightening around the steering wheel. “What the hell—are—are you breaking this off?”

She took a breath and nodded. “This is a farce. You always want to do things I don’t want—"

“So go see a damn psychiatrist to figure out why you never want to have sex!” he retorted. “God, I can’t believe you’re… My mother is going to be devastated.”

“Your mother,” Belle threw the word back at him, “which is my point exactly. Not you. You’re upset the plans changed, but you weren’t into us. You’re upset you’re not getting sex, but you don’t care about any of my reasons for—”

“I can’t even believe you’re saying that! That you’re throwing this back on me!” Garrett protested. He yanked the keys from the ignition and shoved open his door, climbing down from the Hummer and slamming the door.

She winced at the gesture, gathering up her clutch and bracing to leave. It took only a moment to find the velvet box with her ring, which she set in the cup holder. She and Ruby had argued over what would happen to the ring. Ruby insisted it was Belle’s to keep. Nobody wanted a ring from a broken engagement. But it hadn’t felt right to keep it, nor had it seemed right when her friend urged her to hock it and donate the money to her own charity. She climbed out now, rounding the car and keeping several feet back from where Garrett was pacing angrily.

“So this is it? “ he asked, and she was surprised to see how red his face was. Anger seethed from him.

“Garrett, I know about August,” she got right to the point now. If he wanted the biggest reason, well, now he had it. “The press always finds out everything. I wish you’d been honest with me. I would have at least respected that. Tell your mother whatever you want. And don’t worry about the Aces, I’ll find another assistant coach.

She turned now to her condo, leaving him silent and frozen to the spot. Honestly, she felt like she should’ve been sadder about this. Somehow crushed that he’d chosen someone else over her. It had only confirmed what she’d already known. If anything, learning about his side relationship with August only made this easier. She truly wished them well. And it was easier to talk here, in the open and public, though private, space of the parking lot than at the table at Giuseppe’s. Despite the emotions in the restroom, Belle felt suddenly numbed. 

And she was going to ride that feeling.

It took only moments for her to kick off her shoes, and Belle was halfway to her bedroom in search of jeans and her favorite Knights shirt when she called Ruby.

“I’m, ah, home.”

“I can be there in ten with a six pack and ice cream,” came the sympathetic voice.

“Grab your jeans and boots, I’m going out for steak,” Belle retorted. “… and maybe ice cream later.”

“Drinks on me,” her friend promised. “See you in fifteen.”

Belle quickly donned her favorite outfit, twitching the shirt into place and giving herself the first real look in the mirror in weeks. It felt like a weight had lifted off of her shoulders. She would deal with telling her father later. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on chapter 18, and worried that eventually I will post everything I've written up to that point and have writer's block and a long wait for new chapters. Fingers crossed that doesn't happen. eep.


	8. Chapter 8

Frankly, Paton didn’t know how Belle managed it. Fourteen children running in different directions, with widely varying skillsets and objectives, all noise and very little attention. He’d never played baseball as a lad. Various street games, yes, but they’d never had the time or money to play sports, not even like this.

The more reading he did into Step Up to the Plate, the more he wondered how on earth Bae had been allowed to join the team. All of the other children lived in the neighborhood, all what politically correct people would call ‘underprivileged.’ It had prompted him to look up the standard fees for little league teams and make a matching donation to this program.

He had been running late from his office when he arrived ten minutes in. Despite having only one other person, a quiet fellow who went by Graham, helping her, Belle seemed as collected as ever. Nothing at all like she had at the restaurant last week. She hadn’t mentioned the incident, nor had he wanted to pry. She’d simply flashed him a grateful smile and demonstrated the next ‘drill’ before splitting the team in half and giving him what seemed to be the more cooperative children. Those less adept at following directions were in her group, and one pulled aside to work with Graham on batting skills.

Paton considered himself a patient man. He certainly demanded a lot in work, regarding quality and ability to take direction. But despite his uncertainty about fatherhood years ago when Milah unceremoniously tossed a positive pregnancy test in his direction, he thought he did a decent job having patience with his own boy. But Belle was something else to behold. Corrections were sandwiched between compliments, and even the ones who continually swung the bat incorrectly and fumbled catch after catch all wrapped up each drill with a smile in-tact.

“Okay, everyone grab a drink of water, and then we’re going to practice fielding some plays,” Belle instructed, waving toward the dugout. It took a few moments to distribute water bottles, in which by Paton’s estimate she answered no less than ten questions and found a Band-Aid for an almost non-existent scratch.

He took a long drink from his own water bottle and leaned against the fencing as Graham was busy scribbling out a line up. “How long have you been working with them?” he tried for casual conversation.

The taller man didn’t give any indication he had heard him at first, but he finally glanced up. “I’ve filled in here and there over the last two years.”

“Coach Belle?” it was the boy who’d laughed at Paton two weeks back. Phillip. He was busy pulling his ball cap low on his brow, glove in hand and ready to return to the field. “Where’s Coach Garrett today?”

The children might not have thought anything of it, but Paton caught the way her lips pressed tightly together before answering. “He’s had a change in his work schedule. Remember, I told you guys at the beginning of practice that he was really sorry, but he won’t be able to help us this season, so we have our really good friend Coach Graham to help.”

Paton wasn’t surprised in the least when she avoided his gaze and asked Graham to read out the line-up. It was another flurry of scarcely controlled chaos as two players had to be directed to their correct positions. 

“Paton, can you take first base coach position? It’ll let Graham work between third, home and whoever’s on deck.”

His eyes must’ve given away how lost he felt. He had no idea what a deck was. And first base sounded rather important, but he certainly wasn’t going to do anything but nod. It was practice for young children. Surely it couldn’t be too terribly complicated.

“Great, I’ll shout out some directions so you know where to send the runner. Otherwise, just let the kids do the work and remind them to keep an eye on the ball, especially if it’s up in the air.” She strode confidently to the pitcher’s mound like she owned it. And it made him realize she had played this game, probably most of her life. He’d never thought to ask what position. It’s none of your business, he reminded himself. Just like whatever had happened between her and Garrett was none of his business.

It was after practice that Bae planted the idea, and Paton was torn between wishing he could’ve lifted his boy onto his shoulders and carried him before a stadium to cheer his son and simultaneously wanting to cover the child’s mouth.

“You should come with us and eat dinner,” came the eager announcement, Bae carefully tucking the last of the baseballs into the bag while his coach was busy saying goodbye to two other players. Leave it to the seven year old to see no problem whatsoever with this. He and Bae always ate dinner after practice. Belle had to eat. 

Paton quickly joined him, hand resting on his son’s shoulder in the way he often found himself doing. It was protective and meant to reign in these wild ideas. “I’m sure Belle has things that she needs to do.”

“But she probably has time for ice cream,” came the sly comment.

“Ah, but you haven’t had your dinner first,” Paton gently reminded him.

Belle smiled, one of the tired smiles she had relied on throughout practice. “It was very nice of you to think of me,” she said gently. And then she made the mistake of looking down at those pleading eyes. God, how many times had Paton fallen for that trick, too? He sometimes had to steel himself and look at the kid’s forehead or something. Anything but those big, pleading eyes. “I really do like ice cream.”

“Papa!” Bae exclaimed, practically jumping up and down. “Please, please, pleeeeease can we go now? I promise I’ll eat all my dinner and even not ask for ice cream tomorrow.”

And then he made the biggest mistake. Of looking over to see big blue eyes. He had no hope of ending this any other way but caving. It was pure selfishness, and a little cunning to give into Bae. And a lot of self-indulgence to give in to Belle.

“Concession stand?” she suggested. “My treat.”

Paton shook his head slightly. “Gelato. Two blocks south at fourth and Brewer. Our treat. It’s not polite to invite someone for a treat and then expect them to pay.”

“Did you bring enough allowance?” Bae deadpanned, sending Belle into a fit of giggles that sounded nothing short of musical.

“Let me just—“ she started, but Graham had materialized to take care of the remaining equipment.

Graham was already hefting the bat bag and adjusting the other bag that slung over his other shoulder. He gave the boy a rare smile and a soft word of encouragement. It was only as he passed Paton, almost out of the dugout that the words came, so low he knew that no one else heard them. “You better take extra care. Don’t you dare hurt her.”

He bristled slightly, and physically shrugged back his shoulder as if to brush away the words. He certainly didn’t have any plans beyond a very innocent ice cream with his boy and… his boy’s coach. Keep telling yourself that.

“Can I ride with Coach Belle?” Bae was asking now, practically bouncing beside them as they made their way to the parking lot. “Pleeeease, papa?”

“I don’t have the right seat for you to sit in,” Belle spoke up, letting him down gently. It wouldn’t take much to move the booster seat to her car, but he certainly felt better with his son riding in his own car. She gave him a smile of understanding. “I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

That seemed to placate Bae, and it didn’t take much to get him strapped in and on their way. He caught himself glancing in the rear view mirror every block, and by the time they pulled into a parking spot, Bae was already struggling to undo his seat belt. 

“Can I get a sundae?” came the first question.

“Single scoop cone, one flavor, one kind of sprinkles.” Paton knew to set limits fast. It was already a big treat simply to have a snack like this before supper. He knew full well that Bae wouldn’t eat much tonight. At least they’d had some fruit and carrot sticks at the end of practice. He’d noticed that every practice ended with a generous snack, and never the filler snack cakes or fruit snacks. Always actual fresh fruit and often a veggie option for those willing to eat it. He wondered if it was part of the outreach.

Bae was busy trying to choose between chunky chocolate or cookie dough when Belle joined them. It didn’t escape Paton’s notice that she was limping a little, she had been for the last twenty minutes of practice, but he simply tried not to draw attention to it. Just like he pretended not to notice the lack of engagement ring threaded onto her necklace today.

“What’s good here?” she asked, eyes skimming over the freezer cases and the rainbow of colors.

“They have good seasonal gelatos. For March I think mint chocolate is best. They also have a dark chocolate that’s good, or the chai tea gelato if you feel adventurous.”

She leaned forward, surveying the options closely, and Paton was again struck at how petite she really was. For someone who could easily orchestrate so many activities at once and command the attention of small children, he guessed she was maybe a few inches over five feet. She seemed taller on the field.

While one of the workers scooped out a generous portion of double chocolate and multicolored sprinkles for Bae, the other was prepping Belle’s order of dark chocolate after she declared practice to be enough of an adventure for one day.

“Find a good table for us,” Paton instructed his son, knowing it would keep the boy occupied for the short term. He stalled at the freezers, refusing to think about why he was dragging out this time with her. With a young, recently un-engaged woman a good many years his junior…

“Thank you for your help today. Well, the last two weeks,” she said quietly as he tried to decide which gelato to choose for himself. “Garrett and I had a falling out, and it’s going to be easier with you and Graham. I mean, I understand if you can’t be at every practice, but for what it’s worth… thanks.”

“You’re very welcome,” he replied, giving a warm smile and finally settling on the chai. “Thanks for indulging Bae.”

“You mean getting his father to bend the rules about dinner then dessert?” she teased lightly, accepting her gelato and taking a bite. “Mmm, ‘s good.”

Paton winced a little at the comment about rules, glancing in the direction of his son who waved to indicate their table. “I’m actually a terrible person. He goes to his mother’s tonight. So she gets to deal with the sugar high.” It wasn’t his proudest parenting moment.

Her smile was conspiratorial as she swallowed. “I won’t tell,” she promised, waiting for him to pay and falling into step with him as they made their way to Bae. It later occurred to him that it was the most date-like non-date he had ever been on. And he wished Bae was home to keep him occupied because his thoughts were turning far too often to a certain blue-eyed little league coach.


	9. Chapter 9

It was the same as every other time that Paton took his son to Milah’s. The imaginative, chatterbox grew quieter and quieter with every mile. Once, his son had actually fallen asleep after he picked him up from practice, but it was rare. 

A glance in his rear view mirror told him the boy was wide awake and his foot swinging in a steady rhythm which was, no doubt, due to a mixture of nerves and sugar.

While he’d managed to get Bae to wash his hands from the messy drips, he’d decided that a quick bath was in order before dropping him off. He was always so careful to deliver their son in a state of good hygiene and good clothes. A source of pride that he was fully capable of being a (damn good) single father.

His phone was ringing, on the seat beside him, and Paton glued his eyes to the road while reaching and fumbling before managing to connect to his Bluetooth.

“Rumfield.”

“Where are you?” Milah demanded. “This is my time with Neal that I’m losing.”

He bit back a sharp retort. 

“Fifteen minutes away. He had baseball practice, and then he needed to clean up,” came his mild answer.

“It’s still my time that I’m losing.”

“If you’d like more days next time, I can arrange that.” He had years of experience with this, and Paton had learned it was best to keep himself as neutral as possible, letting her expend the energy of getting worked up. He certainly wasn’t going to shout in front of their child. Not that it had stopped her.

“Since you brought up, I’d planned to talk to you when you bothered to arrive about next weekend. I want to have Neal next weekend.”

He shook his head slightly, catching sight of deep brown eyes in the rear view mirror, knowing his boy was hearing his words. “The next three weekends? He has his first game that Saturday—“

“Well, he’ll have to miss next weekend. We have a trip planned, I wanted to switch and have him this weekend and next, but I can’t take him the weekend after.”

“Well, I already had my annual trip to Atlanta planned for that weekend. The one that happens every year,” he stressed, clenching his teeth. “Which I planned specifically because you preferred the arrangement as it stands.”

“What about next weekend?” she protested. “You can’t keep me from him—”

“I’m bringing him to you as we speak,” he reminded, resisting the urge to lay on the horn when a car practically cut him off. A glance in the rear-view mirror told him that his son had clued into the fact that the conversation was about him. Paton grimaced both from the high pitch of Milah’s voice, along with the thought that his son was witnessing this. “I will let you know my decision later,” he managed evenly. 

She sputtered in protest. “Oh yes, the great wizard popping in and out as he pleases. You’ll let me know when I can see my son!”

“Need I remind you that you signed him up for little league? The commitment was made for the season, and he has a game.” As a matter of fact, he had forwarded the schedule of games to her last weekend and hadn’t heard so much as a peep from her. It never ceased to amaze him that he could manage their son just fine for two weeks at a time, but on that one weekend, the messages never seemed to end. Always something she felt she needed to know or tell him.

Bae was fairly easy, at least it seemed to Paton. While he had wants and needs like every child, Paton hoped he’d raised his son to appreciate the things he had and be thankful for them. He had his bad days, rough trips when a long check out at the grocery ended in a tantrum. But they were rare. If anything, his son asked for precious little.

“Don’t you dare threaten—”

“I’m promising you that we will be there in less than fifteen minutes. I’m promising you that he is clean and in good condition. I’m promising you he had a snack but will want supper later. And I’m promising you that’s all I have to say. See you in fifteen.” It was all he could do not to say anything else that he would regret. He ended the call and yanked his blue tooth from his ear before she could redial.

“Is Morraine in my bag, Papa?” came the suddenly tremulous voice in the backseat. Bae’s favorite stuffed animal was his bear that suddenly obtained the name Morraine two years ago. He wouldn’t go to sleep without it.

“Yes, I double checked,” Paton promised. He had a careful checklist he used for every other weekend, making sure the essentials were included. While Bae did have some clothes at Milah’s, he was always certain to pack for the full weekend. And after two nightmares of a Sunday night when Bae managed to return to him without his beloved bear, Paton was careful to be sure it was in the car before they drove back to his home on Sunday nights. It also told him his son was anxious.

Silence lasted until they were pulling into the neighborhood. “Papa, did you pack my glove?”

He hated—hated—drop offs. It turned him inside out every time, more so when Bae needed more assurances as they drew closer to Milah’s place. “Yes. But if you aren’t able to practice with anyone, we’ll practice when you’re back on Sunday, okay?”

“Kay.” A glance to the mirror told him that Bae’s foot was still bouncing with nervousness. 

He pulled as slowly as he could into the drive and put the car into park, taking a deep breath before forcing himself to fall into the routine of unloading the bag and making sure Bae had untangled himself from his seat. Paton rang the doorbell and waited at the door.

“Neal,” Milah greeted, giving Paton a measuring look. She guided the boy inside, taking the bag and staring at her ex-husband. “Baby, guess what, if your papa says yes then we’ll get two weekends together, right after the other!”  
Any relief he’d felt that she wasn’t shouting at him was gone with the way his son turned those hopeful eyes on him. 

“Love you, Bae, have a good weekend, call if you need anything,” he fell back into routine, kissing his boy’s head and urging him into the home. He clenched his fist at his side. He’d never hit a woman in his life, but the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin plastered across Milah’s face tempted him sorely.

“Love you, Papa,” came the gleeful answer as he practically bounced through the door.

“Leave it to you to manipulate a small child,” Paton ground out.

“So I’ll see you on my porch on Sunday and the Friday after,” she purred.

“I haven’t made my decision, yet,” he protested, but it was pointless. And he knew Milah knew it by the look of disdain she threw at him. She merely stepped through the door after their son and pushed it firmly shut behind her.

Paton gave himself a sight shake, trudging back to the car and giving the extra glance back that he always did before slipping into his car and quickly leaving the neighborhood. His car was pointed back toward his home. But he didn’t want to go there. He never wanted to go there after dropping off Bae. And he had yet to find a hobby engrossing enough to keep his mind off of it.

Slamming his palm against the steering wheel in anger, he pointed his car toward his main office and sales floor. It was to work. Paton had flirted with the bars before, but alcohol only made it worse. He might as well get as much work as possible finished while his boy was away. All the more time to spend with Bae on Sunday and during the week.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays to everyone. I hope you enjoy peace during this season and celebrate with people who care about you.

The solid thunk was familiar, a comforting sound that made the bat in her hand practically vibrate as Belle connected with the ball. These particular balls didn’t make as satisfying a sound as the normal baseballs, but for batting practice, this was standard. And this was her own form of stress relief, at least for as long as she could convince Graham to continue to occasionally refill the machine in the batting cage with baseballs.

Another whirl and thunk, and the next ball was flying across the plate as she swung.

It was mindless, repetitive, and exactly what she needed right now. Keeping busy with work wasn’t helping, and while Graham had suggested a psychologist by the odd name of Hopper, the good doctor didn’t have an opening for two weeks. She hadn’t bothered to book the appointment. Hitting things was easier, and she reasoned this wasn’t hurting anyone. It was better than calling up Ruby on her offer to meet Garrett’s SUV with the Louisville Slugger.

Thunk. She connected again, and moments later again. And again until the machine whirred and nothing came out.

“Hey, Graham?” she called, stepping back from the plate and rubbing her forehead with her sleeve.

“Helmet stays on,” he reminded in his usual quiet but firm voice.

“I know,” Belle answered, scowling a little and reaching for her water bottle. “One more round, please?”

He moved toward the door of the cage, watching her closely and growing very still. Dark eyes looked her over and surveyed the collection of baseballs for a moment before he opened the cage, switched off the machine, and began collecting everything at the lower sloped end by the pitching machine.

Belle stepped forward to join him, tossing the dimpled balls into the basket.

“Last one,” he said quietly, giving her a look that told her that this wasn’t a solution. While she loved that he was so understanding and had been such a good friend all these years, sometimes he knew her too well. And he knew her shoulder could only take so much. She was rusty, out of practice. And even if she’d never specifically injured the rotator cuff, years of college level ball hadn’t done it any favors. Almost anyone else would let her get away with what she wanted. Not Graham.

She nodded and adjusted her helmet again before moving back to the plate and lifting her bat.

Another round of steady thunks resounded in the otherwise quiet batting cages. She could do this all day if he would keep reloading for her. Technically, Belle could load the machine but she always missed at least once pitch on the way back to the opposite end of the cage. It was easier with Graham. Or at least until he cut her off.

He gave her that knowing look that told her there would be no sweet talking him into additional rounds. “You’re limping,” came his usual soft-spoke observations. Without judgement.

Belle nodding and gave a grunt of irritation as she collected the stray balls one last time and turned to see Graham standing in her path. Her brow furrowed in confusion. It wasn’t like him to block her way. He was never in the way, always highly conscious of personal space and nothing but courteous. “I took care of it,” she gestured to the tidy pile waiting for the next time someone wanted to use the batting cages.

He reached to the side for his bag and pulled out a roll of kinesthetic tape. “Let me look at your knee and tape it up, yeah?”

Belle sighed. “Promise no poking it or making me do range of motion?”

“I know it’s a waste of air to try to get you to go to your orthopedic specialist. So it’s me or your dad.” He wasn’t going to budge until she agreed, but a glance over his shoulder told her she didn’t have long to make a choice. Her father was walking this way, and she knew there was no way to slip past time.

“No poking it?”

“I’ll be gentle,” Graham promised, finally turning and stepping aside until she could make her way to the bench. He gave her a moment to get as comfortable as he could before he lifted her foot onto the length of the bench and began easing back the Velcro straps of the knee brace. The deeper furrow in her brow was the only indication he gave as to his opinion. “Ice it down before practice with the kids, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, grimacing as he tried to gently ease the wrap from her skin, the constriction letting blood flow more freely into the aggravated muscles and tendons. A soft curse fell from her lips as her father finally spotted her.

“Princess!” he called in a way that had ceased to annoy her. In her younger days, some of her teammates had found that particular name funny, especially at the end of practice when she was covered in dirt and sometimes mud from catching and sliding. It was endearing these days, even if she hardly felt like a princess in her shorts and raglan t-shirt.

Graham didn’t say a word, but rather took the pieces of kinesthetic tape and began applying the first strips. The royal blue really stood out, even against her tanned skin, but it was already feeling the littlest bit better, and it would see her through practice. 

Belle waved to her father and toyed with the knee brace now in her hands as she steadied for their on-going debate to start. When everyone continued to hold the silence, she finally dared to glance up to see her father watching her closely. “I know, I know, you want me to reconsider surgery.”

Maurice French spread his hands wide and sighed. “I don’t like seeing you hurt,” was the indirect answer. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

She frowned, both at the deviation from their usual disagreement and at the resignation in his voice. “Did I miss a meeting—”

“No, princess,” he assured, the pet name doing more to attempt putting her at ease than his tone. “You haven’t answered my calls, and every time I’ve stopped by in the last three days, you’ve been out.”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” she defended, still not really ready to answer the questions she knew he had. Legitimately, she’d had plans every night since he first called. Belle wasn’t actively avoiding him, but she was searching for her own words for the chaos of emotions she’d felt since breaking up with Garrett. And the strange mix of something every time she saw Bae and Paton Rumfield. 

His hands spread wide in surrender. “Belle?”

“Garrett and I aren’t together anymore,” she finally stated, surprised at the lack of emotion in her voice.

“I don’t understand, are you postponing the wedding?” He stepped forward, and Belle was reminded yet again how imposing he could be. He’d used his size well over the years, and while it often intimidated others, she’d found it protective. Sometimes overly protective.

Graham, God bless him, continued to work. He stretched out a piece of the tape and peeled off part of the backing. It was amazing, really, how gentle and firm he could be. The last piece was in place, and he was quietly collecting the bits of smooth plastic before easily slipping from the scene.

Belle’s head shook, and she pushed the unruly ponytail over her shoulder. “No wedding. We’re not even dating any longer.” Please don’t ask me why, she silently begged. This wasn’t how she wanted to have this conversation, not that it seemed like she had much choice. 

Her father finally took the few steps remaining between them and settled on the now vacated end of the bench. “Did something go wrong? Belle, did he–”

She lifted her hands in an attempt to, well, she wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish in lifting them. And just as quickly, she dropped them to her lap, her gaze following. “His mother was ready for him to settle down. But he wasn’t ready.”

“But you set a date…” he trailed off, blessedly not pushing that particular point.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at other people,” she admitted softly, rubbing at a callus on the palm of her hand, put there by hours with a bat. “He said all of the right things, but he… I know he wasn’t ready to settle down.”

Her father was to his feet in a moment, shoulders already tensed in anger. “I’ll fire him!”

“Dad, no,” she objected, rising with a wince as it jostled her leg, but she caught his arm and his attention. Pulling him toward her, the hand on his arm slid to his palm and she gave a soft squeeze. “Look, let it be. Please? I won’t really see him. He’ll be with his department, and they’ll be traveling in no time at all.”

His eyes narrowed, but he finally let out a short sigh. “I could make it legitimate.”

“Don’t go papa bear on me,” she asked.

Maurice nodded and pulled her carefully toward him, wrapping his arms around her in a warm hug. “If he tries to hurt you, though—”

“Then you’ll do what you have to,” she finished for him, her arms banding around him in a warm squeeze. “I know.”

He finally eased his hold and leaned back enough to size her up. “Will you have supper with me tomorrow? I’ve missed you.”

She nodded, giving him a small smile and thankful he wasn’t going to ask for the details. It was comical, sometimes, this balance between them. He could be so overprotective and pushing to know one moment and then wanting to be supportive but with as little detail as possible—much like when she turned twelve and had her first period, when he was solicitous while trying to bury his head in the sand when it came to awareness of how she was changing at the time.

“That sounds nice. Six o’clock?”

He nodded. “I’ll have Mrs. Potts make reservations for us.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took me so long to go through what I'd written and make sure things were still lining up, as well as to edit the next chapter.

Baden tugged at the collar of his shirt and glowered at his mother again as she busily tapped away on her smart phone. He wanted to go to his baseball practice, but instead he was wearing a new shirt that was stiff and uncomfortable. They were in the store on the corner by her house, and he was bored already. A kick to the floor produced a strange squeaking sound as his shoe rubbed over the shiny squares, and he tried it again, dragging his foot slower this time to make it last longer.

Another step, and his other foot dragged along, louder and longer this time. Each step that followed make the same satisfying squeak, and he smiled a little at the new discovery. He could probably make it happen on the shiny squares at school, too.

When he reached the junction of the cross aisle, Baden glanced up to see the toys lined up neatly. There weren’t very many because it was only a corner drug store, but it was better than shopping for clothes like his mom decided to do that morning, and it was better than being around Killian who always tried to muss his hair and called him “mate” like some kind of weird pirate.

He pushed onto his toes to reach the plastic bat and ball, but couldn’t quite reach it. It was dumb that grown-ups always put stuff for kids where kids couldn’t reach. The bottom shelf had a little rail on it, but it wasn’t big enough for Baden to stand on. He glanced around, and then wandered two rows before he found a small step stool for sale. It was perfect, and he thought everyone ought to keep them around. His nanny, Miss Mary Margaret, had one because sometimes things were too high. And he bet that Coach Belle probably used one, too, because she was even shorter than Miss Mary Margaret.

The bright red bat was a lot lighter than the ones they used at the ball field, but Baden figured he could at least get a little practice since his mother wasn’t going to take him today. He grappled with the little ball attached in clear wrapping for a couple of moments before spying one that someone had already pulled out.

It was tricky to throw the ball up and try to hit it on its way down. Coach Belle and Coach Graham made it look easy when they did what they called “fielding practice,” but he couldn’t manage to get the bat into position like his coaches had showed him. And when he gave up on holding it right and only tried to hit the ball, each swing still met empty air and the plastic ball clattered down the row.

“Neal! Where in the world did you run off to?”

He twisted to see his mother finally coming down the toy aisle, phone still in her hand. She waved him over, taking the bat from his hands and leaving it on the nearest shelf with bottles of soda and juice. “Can I get—“

“You’re getting your picture taken,” she answered firmly, fingers coming up to fold the collar into place and trying to run her fingers through his hair to put it back into some semblance of order. “I should’ve taken you for a haircut first.”

He ducked away, scowling hard. “No.”

“It’s a mess,” his mother objected, taking his hand and pulling him to the tall counter like he was a really little kid again. Like Miss Mary Margaret sometimes did with her daughter, Emma, who was only four. “And shorter hair is so much cooler for the springtime, especially with baseball and being outdoors so much.”

Baden stuck out his bottom lip, making his steps as slow and heavy as he could while she maneuvered him in front of a plain background. “Da said I could wear my hair any way I want.”

“You only want long hair because he has it,” she countered flatly. “Stand up and smile nicely,” she encouraged. “This nice lady is taking your picture, and you don’t want to look all sour.”

He frowned, arms crossing. It was exactly the sort of thing she always did when she wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do. His father always talked it through with him, or tried to talk it through. “I like my hair long.”

“You’d feel so much better with a trim,” was the too sweetly spoken answer.

He knew that way of talking, too. It meant she was going to keep trying to get him to cut his hair, even if she wasn’t going to make him do it today.

“Besides, you’ll be meeting Killian’s family soon. His sister. You want to look nice.” She motioned for the lady to snap the picture already. “Come on, a little smile, love.”

It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t a frown, either. Baden considered while also hoping that visiting anyone in Killian’s family meant not having to go see people like Smee, either. Okay, he knew the day camp counselor’s name wasn’t Smee, but he wore a striped shirt the day Baden first met him and looked round and wore glasses like the cartoon guy, and that was Baden’s secret nickname for him. Killian had told him that Smee was his friend, and that Baden was “hanging out” with Smee for the day, but really he was there all day for the last weekend he was supposed to be with his mom, and he was the last kid picked up.

After his mother paid for the pictures and was given a square with several small pictures, Baden trailed her to the car. “How come I have to meet Killian’s sister?”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” his mother exclaimed. “We’ll get to ride on an airplane and see all sorts of new things. She lives in a big city that has a giant ferris wheel like at the amusement park but much, much bigger. And we’ll see a giant clock tower, and there are so many lovely parks to play in. And besides, he’s wanted to go visit his sister for a long time now.”

Baden kicked at a piece of wadded up paper on the sidewalk, waiting a moment while she opened the car door. “Can we give da one of the pictures we took?”

She paused and quickly tucked the photos into her purse. “Oh, you know what… let’s surprise him, hmm? Don’t tell him, and we’ll make… make a present out of it, okay?”

He nodded hesitantly.

“You wouldn’t want to ruin a surprise would you?” she coaxed.

“I guess not,” he answered slowly.

“Good boy, now how about ice cream? The sooner you hop in, the sooner we have a treat.”

He clambered into the backseat, and settled into his booster seat, wondering exactly how big a ferris wheel could be.


	12. Chapter 12

“Left field, this one’s coming for you,” Belle called, tossing a ball and giving it a solid hit into the middle of left. “Someone call it!” she encouraged, and this was one of those sorts of practices that made her want to throw up her arms in futility. It was part of the process. They were beginners in every sense of the word—well, except for her third baseman, Arthur, who seemed too determined to be a one-man-team.

Grace yelped, her arms wrapped around her head to protect it as she ran in the opposite direction.

Arthur was halfway to the ball by the time it was already on the ground.

And Bae was turning around with his gloved hand still raised high in the air as he looked back deeper into the field, exactly two feet where the ball had landed.

At least they were getting closer? Two weeks ago Grace would’ve been in the dugout by now, and the ball would’ve been easily four more feet behind her determined mid fielder.

“Missed again,” came the grunt as Arthur kicked the dirt on his way back to the base he was supposed to be manning.

“Good try, though,” Belle encouraged, determined to push through this practice. They reached this point every season. Sometimes they got stuck here for a full season. “Throw it in, find your cut-off man,” she called, motioning for Bae to throw it to their short stop, who would then pass it in to the pitcher and on to the catcher. It w:as good to rehearse this part, too.

Bae gave a half-hearted throw that came up short, rolling to a stop when it finally bumped against Arthur’s foot.

“You didn’t even throw right,” the third baseman complained.

“You can always move up to meet the ball,” Belle countered mildly. “Throw it to short stop,” she reminded.

The wayward outfielder ducked his head in embarrassment and kicked at the grass while his teammates finished the relay to home base. This wasn’t a good practice for either boy. She wasn’t sure what had happened between them, and they never got along especially well, but it had started early today. Sometime between checking off who was here and directing the team to setting out the bases and warming up, both boys had ended up with rumpled shirts and ruffled hair.

Her fingers itched to dig out her phone and call up Paton. It had been over a week since she had last seen him, but she had no idea what she would say. It wasn’t like she saw Bae fighting. Or being hit or bullied. Besides, she knew Paton was away for work, and it seemed reasonable that it would throw off his son. Hopefully he would be back soon and things would straighten out. And she would regain her assistant coach again.

“Bring it in,” she called on impulse, waving for everyone to come to home base. “Let’s go, hustle, hustle!”

It took several long minutes for everyone to gather, the last of the infielders bringing up the rear. “Five minute water and restroom break, and then I want everyone back here at home plate, understood?”

Various nods and a few replies told Belle that her team had heard her. She kept her eyes trained on Arthur and Bae as the boys diverged, the former plopping onto the dugout bench while Bae made a beeline for the facilities. It was warmer today than any of the previous practices, and she mentally noted which of her young athletes had at least sipped some water and which to remind before they started the drills she had planned.

She hated interrupting a practice, even a less-productive practice, but she also knew that she couldn’t let this continue. “Okay,” she called, drawing everyone together again. “Gloves down, we don’t need them for this drill. I want everyone in a line, facing first base.”

Sometimes it truly astounded her how long it could take twelve young children to line up. She spread them out slightly, leaving just enough space between them before she walked to the front of their impromptu line.

“This is a running drill, but it’s also about working as a team,” she announced, roundly ignoring the handful of sighs. “You are to stay between whoever you are between right now. No pushing, shoving, and no moving people in front of you. No passing them, either. We’re going to do a slow run around the bases. Follow me. And stay in line, stay in your place, got it?”

“Yes, Coach Belle,” they called.

She gave the front of her cap a short tug to make sure it was on securely before breaking into a slow jog. The speed wasn’t important, only that her team learn to work together and keep in their own place. For a first attempt, it wasn’t bad. They didn’t fall apart until she had rounded second.

“Hold up! Stop!” she called, turning and motioning to where two of her players were practically tripping over one another. “We stay in a single line.”

As the children turned to jog again, she waved them away. 

“Nope, back to home base,” Belle directed, leading back to the start. Behind her, she heard the rumbling of discontent. “Every time we don’t make it, we start over. Back to square one.” It took several moments but attempt number two had Belle at short stop before a miniature pile up ended with Arthur, Morraine, and Grace on the ground and Bae crouched down. “Hold up!” she commanded, catching Philip by his arm and keeping him from adding onto the pile up.

Bae grunted in frustration, holding up the strings. “My laces untied.”

“You should’ve double-knotted them,” Arthur scoffed. “Everyone knows that.”

Belle waved the team on to home. “Back to the start, hustle up while I help him fix his shoe,” she shook her head and smiled wryly at the complaints. “And since you think you know better, you can try leading this one, Arthur.”

The boy practically strutted, nudging his teammates into place and giving the call to start running before a third of the team had lined up. He and Philip took off at a sprint and managed to lose the others as they rounded first and Philip overtook him.

“Back to home, and I’m leading again,” Belle called, determined that if they did nothing else, they would learn this by the end of practice or start it all over again next practice. “This is about working together. Everyone runs together, everyone turns, we all have a part in the line and in this team,” she called. “So we will do this right or we won’t do anything else until then. No one can be a whole team on their own. When one person does well, we all do well. When one person is struggling, we all struggle. And we help each other,” she finished, guiding Bae back into line and taking her own place at the front.

It took eight attempts before they all reached home plate. As Belle crossed, she turned and gave each of her team a high five as they crossed. 

“Okay, one last drill for today,” she directed, guiding them to line up along the first baseline again, this time facing her as the first car arrived in the lot. A quick glance to her watch told her that they had fifteen minutes before practice wrapped up. “When I say go, the first person says ‘over,’ as they pass the glove over their head to the person behind them. The goal is to get it all the way to the end without dropping it and then back to the front again, got it?”

“Yes, Coach Belle,” they called back.

She eyed her handful of tougher critics today. “What do you say when you pass it behind you?”

“Over!” they replied.

“Okay, here we go,” Belle called, keeping an eye on the lanky man who was making his way to the field as she handed her glove to Grace at the front of the line. She shook herself slightly as though to push aside the uncomfortable way the man was looking at her and walked down the line of players as the glove went steadily over one head into the waiting hands of the next teammate. “Good job, keep going!” she encouraged, pleasantly surprised to find they handled this activity better than the last.

There was a slight bobble when Philip dropped more than handed the glove back to Bae, but otherwise the team managed to make it to the last person in line and successfully handed it up again to Grace without too many bobbles and a few bumps from the large glove. It made Belle grateful that she hadn’t given the team a baseball to pass.

It wasn’t a complete solution, but it was something. And they had completed two teamwork drills. She was determined to find some new drills to encourage team building, but for today it would do. “Alright, don’t forget that the Knights game is this Saturday evening. Our team gets to come early to the warm up and meet the players and run the bases with them. And then you and your families can stay and watch the game and have a meal together.”

Fliers had gone out two weeks ago, and she had reminded the children at each practice, but this was the last practice before the professional ballgame. Most families had already let her know how many to expect, but she really hoped everyone would remember the game. Reminding them as their parents showed up usually increased the chance of that happening.

“Will we be seeing the lovely coach at the game?” came an over-assured question from the lean man who was now clinging to the chain link fencing along the side of the dugout.

Belle turned in surprise, taking a half step back. “All of the coaching staff will be there,” she answered crisply. “I’m sorry, you’re…?”

“Killian Jones,” the man answered with a smirk, moving around to the entrance of the dugout and nimbly avoiding the glove Bae was tossing idly in the air. “And you must be the infamous Coach Belle.”

“Belle French,” she answered carefully, scooping up Grace’s glove and calling to the girl to be sure she collected it. After a smile and hug to the careless girl, Belle glanced back at Mr. Jones, who seemed to be in no hurry to leave. “I haven’t seen you here before. Are you a parent?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m here for this lad, ‘eh Neal?” he said, reaching over and ruffling Bae’s curly locks.

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he ducked away from the hand. He reached for his baseball cap and pulled it firmly into place. “He’s my mom’s boyfriend,” Bae explained, his shoe scuffing the dirt.

“Labels aren’t important,” Jones laughed, his hand waving as if to ward off the title. “We’re practically a family, right mate?”

Bae’s mouth twisted, and he gave the man a searching look. “Are we going home now?”

Jones nodded. “Your mum has a lot for us to do before we leave on our trip. It was nice meeting you, Miss French,” he grinned again, and something about it left her feeling off-kilter.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let him leave with you,” she finally stated, finding her voice and stepping closer to Bae, her stance protective. Before the man could object, Belle added, “It’s in the policies and procedures. There are only three adults listed to pick up Bae, and your name isn’t on the list.”

He took a step toward her, giving his most charming smile. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement, Miss French.”

“Coach Belle,” Bae corrected. “And Papa says that rules are rules.”

Belle reached for her own cell phone, prepared to make a call to security if need be. A quick scan of the area told her that Ruby was wrapping up her own practice a field away, and she spotted Graham with the groundskeeper near the concessions stand. “Is there someone who can vouch for you?” she asked him.

“I’m sure many a lovely woman would be glad to vouch for me,” he countered easily, grin shifting into a smirk.

“Mr. Jones, is there a name on Bae’s list that I can call who will verify you have permission to pick him up today? Otherwise, he will have to stay here until someone can be reached or someone on his list can pick him up. Paton Rumfield, perhaps?” She knew the name would get a reaction, and Belle would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the way it made his smirk drop.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Milah, the lad’s mother. Call her if you feel it’s necessary.”

It took a few moments, which Belle milked for all their worth, to sort through paperwork and find Bae’s contact form. In the end, she almost wished that she could’ve let Bae go without the conversation. The woman on the other end was brusque and demanding, apparently forgetting she was the one who had signed her son up for the league with all its policies in the first place. And refusing to acknowledge that Belle was only attempting to keep her players safe.

She finally turned back to the pair with a short nod. “Alright, then. Bae, keep practicing, and I hope to see you Saturday for the Knights game.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it,” Jones chuckled, giving her a wink as they turned toward the parking lot.

Belle waited until they were in the car before she kicked at the fence in frustration. Her players were gone, practice was okay, but she hated letting Bae leave with that man. It didn’t matter that Paton would be back in a few more days. She felt like she needed a shower after the way he looked at her, and it seemed she would be treated to more of the same in a few days. And she really wanted to call Paton, but she had no idea what to say. It wasn’t her business. Bae’s mother had every right to date whoever she wanted. Bae wasn’t her son. She wasn’t ready to consider why that last thought was among the hardest to admit.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kind comments. It makes my day.

When his second call of the day went straight to voicemail, Paton barely resisted the urge to throw the seemingly useless phone across his hotel room. He knew exactly why his son hadn’t answered, and it had everything to do with his ex-wife. With a sigh of frustration, he shed his jacket as though that might take some of his anger with it. It didn’t.

He briefly considered calling Belle to see if his son had even been at practice today, but it felt like spying. Part of him didn’t care what she or anyone else thought.

Instead, he paced the room before slipping onto the balcony and pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. It was an old, horrible habit. One Bae had begged him to give up. And he had—mostly. Once upon a time he had smoked nearly a half pack a day. By the time his son could talk, he’d whittled it down to one or two. Things spiked around the divorce, and then tapered. These days, he found himself reaching for the pack only when his son was away. Or when he was away from his boy. It was cold comfort.

Halfway through this one, he took one last drag and carefully ground it out on the concrete patio before returning to his room and the phone. With only a moment of hesitation, he checked the clock. Eight thirty six in the evening there. Bae should still be up.

“Yes?” came the curt greeting on the final ring before voicemail.

“I’d liked to speak to my son,” Paton answered crisply, shifting the phone to his shoulder as he removed his cuff links and set them on the nightstand.

“He’s lost phone privileges tonight,” Milah replied flatly.

Paton’s fingers curled tightly into a fist, and he resisted the urge to bring them down on the nearest surface. “By law I have to be able to speak with him and have access to him. It’s in the custody agreement.”

“You’re always trying to undermine my parenting decisions,” she argued. “If I let him use his phone, then he doesn’t learn anything.”

A dozen replies were on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to push any of them. This wasn’t about Baden. It was about her control. One of the few things she could still do to get to him, and he knew it. “I’m not asking for him to be rewarded. But I am asking for five minutes or less. A check in with him, which I’m entitled to per our custody arrangement. I give you the courtesy of speaking to him, regardless of his behavior, when you call. The point is not to punish him for our differences.”

“He’s already in bed asleep,” she answered neatly.

I don’t believe you, is what he wanted to shout, but Paton bit his tongue and silently counted to ten. “May I please speak with him?”

“He needs his rest, he was in a terrible mood all evening,” came the even reply.

“Then please have him call me in the morning as soon as he’s awake.” He wanted to scream and rant at her, but it never did any good. She had the upper hand here, and she certainly knew it. It wouldn’t have mattered if he could actually hear Bae in the background. For all he knew, she could be out and Bae could be at her home with a babysitter or at some camp like the last time she had wanted a week with their son.

“I’ll have him call tomorrow,” she echoed.

“First thing when he wakes, no matter how early,” Paton pressed.

“God, you’re controlling.”

It was the same barb that she loved to throw, and he barely ground out, “I’ll look forward to speaking with him in the morning. Good evening,” before disconnecting the call and punching the nearest pillow with a ferocity that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The second punch was less satisfying, but he finally straightened his waistcoat and turned to the desk in the corner.

He shook his arms as if to throw off the frustration of the encounter and settled himself at the desk, opening up his laptop and making a quick call to room service for coffee and a late supper. If he was going to get back to his boy any time soon, he needed to finish a great deal or work first. And he knew he was too frustrated to sleep right now as it was. Best to wrap up business and make sure he had everything ready for his return home. To Bae.

*** *** ***

Bae stared at the floor, his arms crossed over his chest, back to the brick hallway. He didn’t have anything to say because he had said it all to Peter in the gym. He did play on a baseball team, and he was going on a really fun trip with his mom and Killian to see a huge ferris wheel and fly on an airplane. He slumped in the chair, his foot bouncing a little. This room wasn’t built for kids like his classroom. It was for grown-ups, which Bae thought didn’t make sense in a place that was s’posed to be about kids.

“Mrs. Rumfield, please come in,” the counselor said.

The words finally caught Bae’s attention enough to look up and see his mother walking into the office, her big bag slung over one arm and a drink from her favorite coffee shop in her other hand. “Ms. Downing,” his mother corrected crisply, taking the seat beside Bae and handing him the cup.

He wrapped his hands around the big, warm cup and took a careful sip. It had chocolate and caramel, and Bae finally settled a little more.

“This seems like an awful lot of fuss for a little disagreement,” his mother stated.

“According to his gym teacher, Baden both pushed and hit another child in his class. We take it very seriously. That sort of behavior is inappropriate at our school. Bae, would you care to tell your mother why you hit someone?” The counselor sat behind her desk, and it was hard for him to see her over the big desk and the pictures she had lined up along the edge.

He took another little sip of the drink and swallowed before answering. “I pushed him,” he clarified. “He kept stepping closer, and I told him to go, and he didn’t stop.” That was a little bit of the truth, but not much of it.

“Your teacher said you hit him, too.”

“He said I wasn’t going to ride on the ferris wheel and said I was a liar,” Bae muttered, foot kicking against the desk.

His papa wasn’t going to be happy at all, but then Bae remembered that his papa was still away. And maybe his papa wouldn’t even have to know about it. It wasn’t like it was really Bae’s fault, anyway. It was Peter’s fault for saying mean things. And Killian’s, too, because his mom said that Killian wanted them to meet his family and go visit them on the plane. But when he had asked when they were going, she would just say soon and it was a special surprise so not to say anything.

“Baden?”

He blinked up at her, realizing she’d asked something. He gave her a shrug, not knowing what else to do with her looking at him like she’d asked something important.

“Do you have anything else to say for yourself?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and glancing to her computer.

Bae shrugged.

“Did anyone see him push or hit Peter?” his mother asked, giving the counselor a hard stare like she did at Papa when they didn’t agree on something.

The counselor started to speak, her mouth opening and closing again. “I mean, Peter said—”

“Besides the boy who claims he was hurt, who? Who saw it?” his mother shot back, pulling out her cell phone in the impatient way she always did when she didn’t want to talk about something anymore.

“Well, I’m sure one of the children—”

“I would like a specific name,” came the cold words.

“I… His teacher could tell you—”

His mother shook her head. “Let me tell you, I’m hardly impressed with an administrator who jumps to conclusions and takes my child from his classroom and interrupts my day for a story she can’t even fully explain. It’s absurd that you can’t seem to resolve this without a parent being present and, furthermore, ridiculous to accuse him without anyone to verify what happened.”

The counselor folded her arms across her chest. “Baden admitted to pushing the boy.”

Bae slouched a little lower in his chair, taking a quiet drink and letting his foot bounce against the big desk that he couldn’t really see over anyway.

“Why did you hit Peter?” she asked in that way that adults used when they felt like they already knew the answer.

She frowned. “Please stop kicking. That’s not an appropriate way to vent your anger.”

He scowled harder at the words. 'Appropriate' was a word his Papa had used before. But vent was something that air came out of, and it almost made him laugh that she used a word about the air thing in his house where Papa changed the filter to talk about doing things that were or weren’t okay. But he knew adults weren’t always smart like they thought.

“Let me tell you, I hardly think this is appropriate. I have half a mind to enroll him in a private school where they know how to run an elementary school without wasting a parent’s time. Come on, Neal, I’m taking you today. Maybe for the remainder of the week,” she added with a sharp look at the woman.

Bae slipped from the chair, careful not to spill his drink. “My backpack’s in my class—”

“You won’t need it. Come on,” his mother urged, shouldering her bag and guiding him neatly through the rest of the office, pausing only to scribble her name on the sign out sheet before she was moving to the parking lot. 

He took another long drink, glad to reach all the chocolate and caramel syrup that had settled on the bottom of her cup. Papa wouldn’t have to know.


	14. Chapter 14

It was quiet, unnaturally quiet in smaller of the side offices. The waiting area held its own silence, which was strange in and of itself. But Ruby knew that Belle always had music or something happening the office she had claimed as hers several years ago. It was on the second floor and overlooked left field and the sunset.

Ruby stepped into the room, gently easing the door closed behind her and shuffled a little on the carpeted floor to announce her presence. But her friend didn’t move. For a moment she wondered if Belle was asleep—not that she would have been shocked after the grueling day. Ruby rounded the cluster of seats overlooking the floor to ceiling windows and took a seat on the edge of the empty chair. From here she could see that her friend was awake, her gaze somewhere beyond the baseball field below them.

“Bells?“ Ruby called gently.

Blue eyes lifted, and she attempted to stir herself, shifting her leg that was propped up on a pillow and sliding away the ice pack. 

“I’m sorry—”

Belle shook her head hard, catching Ruby’s wrist before she could reach out and give her hand a squeeze. “Don’t… please don’t, yet. Not right now. I’ll never get through tonight if you… I’ll be ready in a sec, okay?” Tears welled, and she swallowed hard and gave her head a soft shake as the emotions ebbed.

Ruby nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else. They were going to have to walk past the empty office. But she didn’t need to talk about it now. Not yet.

A gentle sniffle was the last sound before Belle pushed herself to her good leg, testing the other gingerly and straightening this season’s royal blue Aces shirt. Her fingers gently swiped under her eyes, though they were dry. “Do… do I look okay?” she asked, clearing her throat and straightening a little.

Ruby reached into her pocket, drawing out a black arm band. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying as she held it while Belle slipped her hand through. It took short work to ease it to Belle’s upper arm. She then reached up and smoothed back a stray lock that had escaped her baseball hat. “You look great.” She took a deep breath and kept herself from embracing her best friend, instead pulling out her own matching arm band and slipping it on. The players were already wearing theirs tonight in memoriam. “Ready?”

Belle glanced at the windows, noting the families already starting to gather near home plate to meet the players. “Yeah,” she replied, taking Ruby’s hand as they stepped into the hallway and walked past the vacant desk. Ruby gave her hand a gentle squeeze before they stepped into the elevator and went to join their teams.

*** *** ***

“Hey! Hey, you have the same numbers I do!” Bae shouted as he ran up to the guy with the 6-8 on the back of his shirt. He held up his new t-shirt to be signed.

“Nuh-uh, he’s 68, and you’re 86,” Arthur objected stepping up beside them and lifting up his shirt, too.

“Both of those are pretty good numbers,” the player chuckled, giving them smiles and signing Bae’s shirt and then Arthur’s. When he turned, to ask Arthur something, Bae stuck out his tongue and twisted around to try and figure out who hadn’t signed his shirt, yet.

There were kids everywhere, and mostly grown-ups at the side of the field, by the line Coach Belle had told them about, the one real baseball players said you couldn’t step on, but Bae couldn’t remember what it was called. He darted to the left, seeing a taller guy he hadn’t seen before and managing to get him to sign, too, before they were all called to come to home plate.

There were kids from all six teams, and it took a little while, but they finally started running with the players around the bases, each team taking turns. As he rounded home, he ran toward his mother, jumping around because it was so much fun. “Didja see? We got to run with the biggest guy! Did you get a picture?”

“Yeah, I saw,” his mother answered, waving at him.

“I wanna see the picture!” he exclaimed, reaching for her hand that held her phone.

She tilted the phone down to show him, then quickly pulled it back and tapped on it.

“Mooooommmm!” Bae protested.

She glanced up, then looked around them. “Hmm?”

“Take another of me!” he yelled, taking off at a run.

“Woah, slugger,” another tall guy laughed, catching his arm and stopping him from charging around the bases again. “It’s almost time to eat. These guys have a game to get ready for.”

Bae leaned back further, pushing his baseball cap back so he could see better. “Coach Garrett, are you a baseball player?”

Coach Garrett laughed and rubbed his head a little. “Used to be in college.”

“Bae?” Coach Belle gave the man a strange look and put her hand on Bae’s shoulder. “Ready for some hot dogs?”

“He used to be a baseball player!” he said, kind of too loud because she jumped a little. Sometimes he got excited and was too loud, even if they were outside.

She nodded a little, trying to give a smile but she couldn’t finish the smile.

“Belle,” the tall man started to talk to her, but she gave a small shake of her head, and Bae thought it was weird that adults wouldn’t just talk. His papa said when stuff bothered him that he should tell someone, but instead they weren’t.

"How come he's not a player anymore?” Bae asked, looking back over his shoulder as Coach Belle walked slowly toward the parents.

“Sometimes people realize they want to do other things,” she answered, and she sounded sad and it made Bae want to hug her. And it was also strange because who wouldn't want to be a baseball player? But she was already talking again, “C’mon, how about dinner?”

“Can I have two hotdogs?” Bae asked. He knew it wasn’t probably the right thing to ask, but hotdogs were his favorite, and his papa didn’t let him have them too much. But they made him happy, so maybe they would make Coach Belle happy, too.

“If you can eat two,” she answered.

“One time I ate two and a half, but they were little hotdogs,” Bae supplied, jogging alongside her as she walked a little faster.

Coach Belle tried to smile again. “Is your papa here tonight?” she asked, stretching a little to try to see over the taller people.

“He’s s’posed to come later. When his flight gets in,” Bae supplied. “Mom and Killian brought me tonight. How come you have this black thingy on your arm like the players?”

“It—”

Whatever Coach Belle was going to say didn’t get said because the big older, in-charge guy started to talk really loud now. He was saying hello to everyone, and called said he was Belle’s dad, and something about a loss, but Bae didn’t understand how the Royals lost their game because they hadn’t even played, yet. So Bae thought he should probably just watch baseball players stretch so he would know how to do it the right way next time he played baseball.


	15. Chapter 15

The game was already in the fifth inning when Paton finally made his way to the suite. If he had his way, he would’ve been home, taking a shower while Milah brought their son back to him. But tonight was game night, and he had promised Bae he would be here. And so here he was, finally making his way through several levels of security and checkpoints at the baseball field that would’ve made TSA look inept.

“This way, sir, please help yourself to a plate,” the attendant directed as she opened the door and allowed him to join the rest of Bae’s teammates and their families.

A brief visual sweep of the space and Paton quickly caught sight of his son, who was happily gorging himself on a hotdog and french fries seated right beside his coach. Belle was sprawled out with several of the kids, her legs propped up on an extra chair as she took time to explain various points of the game. On the far left, he spotted his ex-wife and her boyfriend, both with drinks in their hand and talking far louder than the room warranted. Of course they would already be making pests of themselves.

With a quiet thanks, he made his way to the buffet and picked out enough of a meal to tide him over until he could go home and have a proper tea. For now, part of a burger and water would suffice. The game was, apparently, lively enough to keep everyone else’s attention, affording Paton the chance to settle in the back and watch his son and Belle at leisure.

Bae was dusty and had clearly enjoyed the time on the field, but he was his usual talkative self, full of questions and comments. It was good to see him in the flesh after nearly a week apart. Silently he vowed that wouldn’t happen again. At Bae’s side, Belle was clearly doing her best to be attentive to all of her team. Paton had known for a while now that she was great with children, but he’d never noticed that she was practically the Pied Piper. She wasn’t just a natural, it was magical.

“Papa!” came the exclamation of joy at the top of the sixth inning. His son bumped a toddler and almost started a miniature avalanche of bottled water in his rush to throw himself at his father.

It gave Paton enough time to brace for impact, his arms going around his boy. One hand slid into the mop of curls ordering it a bit and enjoying the moment. Two dark eyes blinked up, sparkling to match the grin across Bae’s face.

“I missed you!” Bae exclaimed. “Did you see that catch? And Coach Belle? She’s teaching us how to keep score, and c’mon, we’re going to miss something,” came the rush of words and exclamations and questions as a small hand tucked into his and pulled him toward the front row.

“I’m not sure there’s room,” Paton noted gently, managing to snag his water bottle and leaving the rest of his meal.

Bae shook his head, continuing to lead. “I could sit on your lap. We have plenty of room, right Coach Belle?”

“There’s always room,” came the simple answer. Deep blue eyes lifted to meet his, and she gave a smile. Or at least she tried to. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and he realized they were a little red-rimmed.

“Are you a—” he began, but the slight shake of her head told him not to finish the sentence. Instead, he settled into the well-padded seat and pulled Bae into his lap. There were certainly worse things than sitting for a few innings. The home team was up by two, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

“Papa, see our shirts that Coach Belle gave us? Wasn’t that really nice of her?” Bae asked, pointing to his Knights t-shirt.

He nodded. “Yes, I saw, and it was very kind of her. Did you thank her?”

Bae’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I… think I did?”

Beside him, he could see Belle’s mouth twitch into a bit more of a smile. Something was still wrong because under other circumstances she would’ve chuckled at least.

“Perhaps you should thank her just to be sure?” he whispered softly into his son’s ear.

A small hand reached over, patting her arm lightly. “Coach Belle, thanks for our really cool shirts… and my hotdog.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, giving Paton a nod. “I’m glad you like baseball so much.”

Bae grinned and nodded. “And hotdogs… and ice cream. Papa said that sharing things we like is a good way to make friends. Coach Belle’s a good friend, isn’t she, Papa?”

Somewhere behind him, Paton heard the snort of derision, but he wasn’t going to dignify either Milah or Jones with acknowledging it. “She is,” he settled on simple truth instead and handed his son another hotdog. At least food would keep the boy busy and quieter for the next while.

Beside them, Belle offered a wistful smile before turning to answer a question about mascots that the little girl on her left had asked.


	16. Chapter 16

“No, you aren’t!” came the loud protest along with the clatter of a pop can hitting the floor of the suite.

“Yeah, huh!” Arthur retorted, jumping up and kicking the can back toward Bae.

Bae glowered, sliding off his chair and kicking the air in anger. “You are not team captain. You can’t just say you’re captain and make it true!”

“I am, too, ‘cause I’m the best player!” Arthur scoffed.

Belle was to her feet in a moment, rushing over and stepping between them. “Hey, slow it down here,” she ordered, taking each boy by the shoulder and separating them further. “The whole team agrees on team captain, and it will change every game. Right now, neither of you are showing many leadership qualities.”

“She’s right, mate,” came a vaguely slurred voice from behind Belle. She turned to find Jones leaning over the seats, uncomfortably close. Belle took a small step, steering the boys to the side as several parents continued to follow the ending argument between the boys. “’sides, better to wait til the team wins a game anyway. Shoulda joined those Junior Pirates instead. They’re almost as good as those Pirates,” he laughed, motioning toward the field and the current score with the Knights down by a run.

“Leave my kid alone,” came another voice, Arthur’s father rounding the seats and taking his son’s arm to draw him back.

“Easy, old man. I call ‘em like I see it,” Jones replied, giving a shrug and smirking at Belle. “Look, they scored again!” he called as the visiting team stole home.

The elder gentleman glared, pulling his son further from Jones. “It’s rude to cheer the visitors from these seats.”

Jones shrugged. “It’s a free country.” He glanced down at Bae who was staring between the adults. “And who’s to say he might to be captain.”

“Captain is an honor bestowed by the team and the coaches,” Belle objected, stiffening. “And I think it’s time the bar cut you off for tonight, Mr. Jones.”

“Killian, love,” he purred with a wink.

“My son has every right to be a captain,” came another voice, Milah joining the conversation. She took Bae’s arm and nudged him away from Arthur and the other boy’s father. “C’mere, have some nachos,” she encouraged, leading him to another seat and handing over the gooey snack.

“And he certainly doesn’t deserve the position if he’s acting like this. Bae, you’ll have your turn if you earn the title,” Paton joined the group, clearly feeling the need to intervene but not completely certain how best to go about it.

Belle sighed, glancing around and finding Graham had somehow managed to materialize. It was all coming to a head much too quickly, and more players and parents were becoming distracted from what was anyone’s game as the Knights took the mound at the top of the eighth inning and down by two. “Can we please all find our seats again?” she asked calmly but firmly. Paton gave her a look of contrition and nodded as she continued, “This is for the children to enjoy a professional game, and the league is recreational. The purpose is to learn a sport and some sportsmanship.”

“Some people have a lot to learn,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

Milah scoffed at him, and started toward the boy only to be stopped by Graham. “He has no right to talk to my boy—”

“Let’s not make this any worse in front of the kids,” Graham said softly, nodding toward two members of security who had stepped into the suite. He effortlessly moved between the couple and Belle, giving Belle’s elbow a gentle squeeze of reassurance as Gold managed to move Bae and his food out of the way, quietly giving his son a full run down of where his behavior was going to land him.

Jones frowned and shrugged off the escort. “Drinks are better down at the pub anyway,” he said carelessly and too loudly, “c’mon Milah.”

“Neal, sweetie, we’re going,” she called.

Paton stepped forward now, blocking her way. “He's going home with me tonight.”

“I only want to say goodnight,” Milah simpered, glancing around the suite and certain she still had attention.

“Papa, my stomach hurts kinda,” Bae spoke up, playing with the chip and eyeing the orangey cheese.

Paton sighed. “I think you should stop eating that,” he answered.

“You need some Sprite,” Milah insisted, hurrying to the buffet and returning with the can. She offered up a few sips and settled the can into the cup holder. “Get some rest, hmm? I’ll see you next weekend,” she added, giving Paton a sharp look as if daring him to contradict her. Before he could utter a word, she was leaning down and giving Bae a long hug. “Be a good boy, Neal.”

Whatever Bae had been about to say was lost, along with all of his snacks a moment later as he coughed and then gagged, making a mess of the carpet and his mother’s newest wedges.


	17. Chapter 17

Paton bit back a sigh as he finished wiping his son’s face with a damp towel and gently brushed back the sweaty brown curls. On the bathroom counter rested Bae’s shirt, a crumpled wad of fabric that he (privately) wasn’t sure was worth saving. Except that when he started to throw it in the rubbish bin after peeling it off his boy, Bae had immediately had a melt down and begged him to save it. His team shirt. “Sit here a moment, hmm?” he directed.

“’kay,” was Bae’s only reply, his face pale and even his feet still as he sat on the edge of the counter and looked like he was contemplating if he was going to be sick again.

Thankfully Bae’s sandals were made of rubber and had been easy to rinse clean. Now, if the shirt was to be saved, he needed to act. Forcing thoughts of what, exactly, he was washing off of the fabric out of his mind, Paton let himself lapse into autopilot and began rinsing the mess off with cold water, applying a little of the hand soap to at least start the process of washing the shirt back to its rich blue color.

“Is mum still here?” the question was barely audible over the sound of water from the tap.

Paton shook his head slightly. “It was time for her to go home. You’ll see her next weekend again, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Bae murmured and rubbed his face before leaning back against the wall, his eyes starting to droop. “I’m cold.”

Before he could answer, a soft knock came at the door.

“Sit right there,” Paton instructed, reaching for a hand towel and drying his hands before cracking the door.

Belle held out a stack of towels and a shirt. “I, ah… I thought he would need this…” She looked as wrung out as Bae, and the box behind them sounded quieter than it had when he first ushered Bae away from the noise and mess. 

“Papa? I’m cold,” came Bae, who was now behind him.

“Hey, I brought you a shirt,” Belle held up a Knights jersey that looked a size too big for Bae.

Paton stepped aside and took a towel off the stack Belle was carrying and wrapped it around his son. “What do you say?” he prompted gently.

Instead of the thanks that was expected, tears welled up in Bae’s eyes. “I want my shirt,” he sniffled, bottom lip trembling.

“Bae,” Paton protested, searching for further words. Whatever he was trying to say was lost, and he reached for his son instead and wrapped an arm around his boy’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Belle, we should go—”

She was waving his words away. “You don’t own me an apology, he’s tired, and he’s been sick, and it’s been… it’s been a long day…” Her eyes were welling up, too, and she rubbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry, this isn’t how… it’s not…”

“Coach Belle needs a hug,” came a small voice, and both adults looked down to see Bae wrapping his arms around Belle’s leg. Dark eyes blinked upward. “Papa gives good hugs, too.”

Paton stammered, and was about to protest because something about propriety when Belle stepped closer or maybe was trying to find her balance with a seven year old wrapped around her leg, and the next thing he knew she was leaning into him, and his arms were instinctively banding around her. The first thing he realized was how sturdy she seemed, and the next thing his mind registered was that both of the other people in their huddle were crying. Of all the days to be sans pocket handkerchiefs. He wasn’t sure who to address first, but again Belle solved the problem before his brain could begin processing thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” she swallowed hard and stepped back, almost tripping over Bae as his hand steadied her. “It’s… I’m not myself tonight… Several of the families left. The game is in its last innings, or maybe over. I can have someone escort you to the car when you’re ready, and we’ll try to do this again… the game, I mean. I usually have help from my father’s secretary, but… it’s…”

He bent to snag one of the towels that left in the stack that had ended up in a pile on the floor and handed it to Belle. “His secretary,” he asked softly, squeezing Bae’s shoulder lightly, “She’s the reason for the arm bands tonight.”

Belle nodded, fresh tears falling faster than she could wipe them away. “Mrs. Potts…It happened last night, it was so sudden and… we… anyway, I’m so sorry for tonight. For Bae and the team…”

“Papa?” came the weary voice.

“Anyway, um, the shirt… Bae, I’ll get you a new Aces shirt, okay? Don’t worry about that. And, ah, I’ll see you at practice on Wednesday?” she tried for cheer and fell flat, but she refused to look at Paton. 

“Belle?” he tried, even as he lifted Bae and secured the over-sized towel around his exhausted son.

“I can’t,” came her reply, her voice cracking. “Please… not tonight.”

He nodded and sighed heavily this time, managing what he hoped was a sympathetic squeeze of her hand before taking the offering of a brand new jersey for Bae and acquiescing to staff who were kind enough to help them navigate a private maze of corridors and elevators to the parking lot, effectively avoiding the general public now leaving the game. The Knights managed a win by two runs, and Bae was sound asleep against his shoulder by the time they reached the car.


	18. Chapter 18

Ruby Lucas knew she attracted attention, and she was clever enough to know that most people thought her skills ended with her looks. But she noticed things. Like the pale pink and peach roses set on the counter. And the attractive, immaculately dressed gentleman who was delivering them. A gentleman Ruby had seen before, the most notable of those times being last night at the end of the baseball game. One of the parents of a cute little boy on Belle’s little league team.

He glanced up as she approached the front desk, giving her a piercing look. But he focused on her face. Good. Ruby usually read people quickly and accurately, and she liked this one. “You were at the game yesterday.”

She gave a slight nod, leaning against the desk and reaching to brush a bright red manicured finger against the nearest bloom. “So were you. Your kid’s on Belle’s team.”

“Bae, yes,” he confirmed. “I’m Paton Rumfield.” His hand reached out, notably empty of rings.

“Ruby Lucas,” she offered, hand reaching to shake his. His handshake was firm and professional, another point in his favor. “What brings you by the office today?” They were short-staffed at the moment, everyone busy preparing for the memorial service in the afternoon. A few temps had been brought in to cover the desk while everyone else attempted to get through this god-awful day.

He glanced around and gave her a small, apologetic smile. “Bae had a bit of a rough night at the game last night—he got upset, and then his stomach followed in suit… and, ah, I wanted to offer an apology to Coach Belle, that is, Miss French.” A slight gesture indicated the flowers on the counter. “If you could be sure she receives them, I would be grateful.”

Ruby gave a short nod, making up her mind. “You can deliver them yourself if you want. I’ll escort him back,” she reassured the uncertain young woman at the counter who was frantically searching through notes for protocol. 

“Really, I only wanted to leave these for her—”

“Rubes, have you seen my—” Belle started, rounding the corner and stopping short at the sight of Paton and Ruby with the flowers. Her mouth worked for a moment, no sound coming out, as she reached a hand up to rub under her eyes furtively. “Hello, Paton.”

“Hello,” he echoed, attempting a sympathetic smile. His right hand reached into his jacket pocket, and he offered her the soft handkerchief. 

Belle accepted it with a word of thanks and leaving him casting about and clearly unsure what to do with himself.

“A handkerchief, and these flowers,” Ruby prompted, lifting the modest arrangement. “We were just headed to your office.”

“I, ah, don’t want to keep you,” Paton began, his voice trailing off as he took in Belle’s carefully curled hair and the navy and lace dress she wore. It was very dressy, even for Belle, and Ruby couldn’t imagine that the man had seen Belle’s hair in any style other than a ponytail and most often tucked under a baseball cap.

Belle shook her head slightly. “No, please, I wouldn’t mind company for a few moments. Unless… you need to go on with your day?”

“No, I mean, yes,” he quickly corrected himself. “That is to say, I have a bit of time… Bae’s with his nanny, of course, and, anyway, we’re both dreadfully sorry for how yesterday ended. He had so much fun meeting the team and seeing the field, and I’m sorry I didn’t watch how much he was eating… or how tired he had become.”

Ruby fell in step with both of them, giving Belle a look before moving on down the hallway. She definitely needed to hear more about this later. It was one thing for a parent to call or visit. God knew she had been propositioned by a lonely dad or two in the last few years coaching her team… but this was different. Oh, the man definitely had his eye on Belle, but it wasn’t… creepy. Lecherous, as Belle would say. And despite Belle’s more cautious side and recent break up with Garrett, there was definite interest on her part.

 

The first thing Paton noticed was that she was trembling slightly, and the second was how the mid-morning sun brought out the golden undertones in Belle’s curls. He had never been so grateful for a vase of flowers that gave him something to do with his hands. At least for the exact ten seconds before she took them a gentle set them on an end table by a set of deep lounger chairs. Across one wall he saw several vintage baseball posters and a clearly well-tended collection of antique baseball gloves and mitts. But the light was pouring in from the wall to ceiling windows that overlooked the field.

“How’s Bae?” she finally asked, toeing off her low heels and rubbing her bare arms.

“Better this morning,” Paton answered, stepping slowly toward her, giving her time to back away. One hand gently cupped her nearest elbow, guiding her toward one of the loungers and silently urging her to sit. With his free hand, he snagged a nearby throw and offered it before taking a seat on the edge of the nearby lounger. “He’s with Miss Blanchard today, to be safe and to let him sleep in a bit, but he wasn’t sick after we left, and he kept down his breakfast. I’m sorry about last night… I should’ve watched him more closely… I… should’ve been here when the evening began.”

Her head shook gently. “It must be hard. Having to travel. Parenting a child as a single p…” she trailed off and twisted the handkerchief idly. “It’s not my business, I’m sorry.”

Paton summoned a small smile. “He’s the best thing that’s happened to me,” was his sincere answer. “Do you, ah… need to leave soon? I didn’t mean to take up your time, Belle.”  
Her eyes lifted at her name, and she blinked away the sheen of tears that had been present the night before. “In half an hour or so… It’s still hard to grasp that she’s… gone.”

“You were close?” he winced internally, feeling as though he was prying, but unable to think of another thing to ask.

Belle nodded and swallowed hard but the lost the battle to hold in the tears. “Yeah… yeah… she, ah, started working for the team when I was eight.” She sniffled and wrung the handkerchief again before glancing down and looking at the fabric as though seeing it for the first time. “She was like a mother to me.”

“I’m so sorry, Belle.”

Her mouth twisted into something like a smile, tears falling more freely now. “I wish she’d been able to meet Bae,” she answered, her voice cracking. “She loved to watch the final little league tournament for Step Up each year… They… they would’ve gotten along so well…” She pushed herself to her feet, using the handkerchief to dab away the tears. “Anyway… You… I don’t want to keep you…” She held out the pocket square.

Paton pressed the fabric back into her hand, both of his cupping the soft, tanned skin. “Keep it… small comfort, yeah?” He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across the knuckles.

Another soft sniffle, and she nodded, taking a step closer to close the half foot between them and leaning down slightly. For a half moment he wasn’t sure what to do, but her lip brushed his forehead just a lightly as his kiss. “Thank you, Paton.” It only lasted a moment and she was stepping back as he rose. “After the season… after it…”

He nodded, wishing he could go with her to the service. To what? Hold her hand? A shoulder to cry on? It was time to go. With a soft farewell, he let himself out, fighting with himself all the way to his office about the decision wait. Unsure what she could possibly see in him. Certain he hated the idea of waiting until next practice to see her again. Resisting the urge to call her in the evening to see how she was holding up.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this only took me just over a year to write the next chapter. I still don't know why I got stuck for so long.

Bae could hear the in the other room. He curled tighter in his hiding spot in the biggest bedroom where he wasn’t really s’posed to go. But his papa couldn’t make him leave if his papa couldn’t find him. There was a gap between the top of the bed and the wall that he fit in. It was where he went when really wanted to hide from Emma during hide and go seek or when she was being too nosey. 

“Emma Ruth, get your blocks out of the hallway or they belong to me!” Miss Mary Margaret scolding. “Baden, where did you leave your backpack? It’s not with your shoes.” It meant it was the end of the day, and probably soon she would know he wasn’t playing with Emma in her room. He wished he had left his backpack in the right place, but she did sound madder about the blocks than his missing backpack.

Miss Mary Margaret worried a lot. Usually ‘cause of things that Emma did, but sometimes over things about him, too. Like about eating vegetables and getting the big mud stain out of his new jeans and about his eye when the baseball hit it.

He stretched a little, and reached up and took one of the little pillows on the top of the bed so he could cuddle up with it. He should’ve brought his bear, Morraine, to hide out with him because of how cuddly she was, she could kind of be a pillow. He shouldn’t have left her in the den. But Miss Mary Margaret would take care of her. Unless Emma kidnapped Morraine again because she did that lots when she wanted to play pirates.

It was strange how quiet it was back here. Emma talked lots and lots and was busy with her toys and TV shows. And Miss Mary Margaret was always talking, too, and trying to teach them things that she called ‘richment. Which seemed funny because Miss Mary Margaret and Emma and Mister David weren’t really rich at all, even if their house was clean and stuff.

Down here it was dusty, too. His nose felt itchy, and he rubbed at it, unable to stifle a sneeze.

There was the click of the door opening, and he tried to be really, really still and quiet. Closing both his eyes, Bae held his breath and counted slowly to ten, thinking very quiet thoughts with everything he could. About how his teacher made them tip-toe in the hallway when the big kids were taking a test, and when his mum was taking a nap or was having a lie-in, or when he was hiding from Emma, or how in the story about not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.

David Nolan knew something was off as he entered his master bedroom. He had already greeted his wife when he arrived home. And Emma had pounced him not long after. But something was still off, and he trusted his intuition—it had helped him excel through the ranks up to now, giving him the push he needed to push to make detective, and it kept him safe on the force. It made him pause now before stowing his gun in the safe.

Mary Margaret didn’t really like the weapon, though she understood its use. They had made a rule once Emma was born that it went immediately in the safe when he got home. Emma was never in the room when he stowed it—another small insurance to be certain she didn’t try to get it out.  
David had almost convinced himself he was wrong. That it was just his imagination. When he heard a small sniffle. “Emma Ruth?” he queried, frowning and certain again that his daughter was playing two rooms away.

Silence.

Out of sheer habit, he had already cleared his gun from its holster. Stealthily, he glanced around the room, checked behind the chair in the corner, and then cleared the master bath and the walk in closet. Another soft sniffle was his only clue, this time coming from his left. David leaned down and lifted the fabric his wife had insisted every proper bed needed.

He could make out a small shape up by the headboard, one he could’ve mistaken for Emma if it wasn’t for a shock of dark curls. 

Baden. 

Straightening slowly, David moved toward the gun safe. A glance over his shoulder told him that the boy wasn’t where he could see as David punched in the combination and stowed his weapon. He pushed the door shut, giving it a small tug to ensure it was fully closed, and then he set his credentials on his nightstand. Several thoughts were going through his mind, but he decided to give it a few more moments before he said anything.

He took his time, shedding his button down shirt for a soft t-shirt and stretching out across the bed. A small sneeze told him that the young stowaway was still awake. “This side of the bed is a lot softer. And less dusty.” 

The room went silent for long moments. David didn’t know the boy all that well. Sure, Baden had spent the night a few times. He was often there for a bit after David arrived home. And while David often saw and heard Baden playing freely with Emma, there was a certain shyness when it came to him. David wasn’t sure if it was his job—many kids found police officers intimidating. Or maybe it was his height. Baden was sturdy, but a smidge short for his age. Given his father’s modest height, it wasn’t a surprise that Emma, despite being a year younger, was almost as tall as Baden

“Your papa will be here soon, and I think he would be sad if you weren’t around. Don’t you want to see him?”

Bae shrugged. He didn’t know because probably his papa would be sad. And he did want to see his papa. But he knew if he came out, he would have to go home with papa. And then to school tomorrow. And then to see his mum and Killian again. But he could stay here because he was small and he fit. Even if he did kind of need to use the potty.

Emma’s papa gave a shrug. “Okay. That looks like a pretty good hiding spot.”

He considered this. “Don’t tell Emma, okay?”

“Should we shake on it?”

Bae’s eyes narrowed and he thought.

“My dad used to say that’s how men do business. They shake on it. A gentlemen’s agreement. How ‘bout it?” A hand extended, turning and flattening.

Bae reached out and shook it as best he could in the narrow gap. “Are you gonna make me come out and go away?”

“Your dad would be worried. And so would my wife,” Emma’s dad said, which didn’t tell Bae what he wanted to know. Sometimes grown-ups were hard to understand. “It would be kind of hard to sleep down there, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Bae countered, shifting until he could lay down. “See? It’s enough room—” Whatever else he was going to say was cut off with another sneeze. When he stopped this time, he saw a Kleenex being handed over. With a sniffle, he rubbed his nose and tried to blow like Miss Mary Margaret showed him. “I could sleep here.”

“Wouldn’t you miss your own bed? And your dad?”

“Maybe?” he asked, wiggling a little because his foot felt tingly. He felt bad again because Emma’s dad didn’t even always come home before Bae’s papa picked him up. Usually he was working. Lots. And that meant it was even closer to time his papa was gonna be there looking for him.

It was clear to David Nolan that the boy was conflicted. It bothered him—a lot—that something was obviously wrong. He knew his wife was good at listening to kids, and to reasoning with them. And reading them the riot act if absolutely necessary. And he got the impression that Bae hadn’t talked to Mary Margaret because he was busy hiding. That maybe the boy answered sounded a lot like yes. “What do you like best about your dad?”

Bae chewed his bottom lip for a moment before offering up, “He loves me lots. And he’s nice. And, um, teaches me stuff and takes care of me. And gives me hugs.”

“If you could change anything, what would it be?” He didn’t have any reason to suspect the boy was in danger with his father. Bae was always in clean clothes and well groomed, hair long but healthy. The only bruises he’d seen on the boy were from baseball and the occasional tumble at the park under Mary Margaret’s watch.

“That I could stay just with him.”

Ah. David had never met the boy’s mother. His wife had only met her twice and had described the woman as a brusque with her and overly attentive of the boy. “It’s hard when we have to do things we don’t like to do.” Silence followed this. When David stretched and rolled onto his stomach, he slid a little closer to the gap at the head of the bed and saw to solemn eyes staring up at him. “Do you know how long before you’ll be with your dad again?”

Baden’s forehead wrinkled as he thought. “I think maybe a week. We’re going on a va… vacation. And we’re going to ride a ferris wheel, even though one of the kids in my class said we weren’t.”

“Ferris wheels are fun,” David offered. “Are there any other fun things you’re going to do with your mom?”

Baden shrugged. “I always miss my papa, though.”

“I miss Emma when she’s on a trip.”

“Do you think my papa misses me?” came the small question.

David felt his own heart clench, but he was certain of his answer and waited until he met the boy’s eyes to answer. “Yes, I know he does.” He watched and let the silence sit between them for long moments before he asked, “If you miss him while you’re away, you can call him, can’t you?”

A small nod. “Papa said I could call him.”

“Okay,” David offered up a small smile. “Do you know his phone number?”

Baden promptly recited area code and number. “And papa put it in my phone that goes in my bag.” He shifted a little closer, clearly trying to stretch in the increasingly cramped spot.

“And it’s only a few days, and you get to ride a ferris wheel.”

“Maybe I can ride the ferris wheel a couple of times?” the boy ventured.

David shrugged but gave an encouraging smile. “Maybe. But you know what we can do right now?”

Baden shook his head.

“We could have some mac and cheese that Mary Margaret made. I bet it was a long time since you had your snack after school, huh?” 

A nod this time. “Yeah… and we had peaches today,” he answered, nose wrinkling. Peaches were a favorite of Emma’s, but clearly not Baden.

“C’mon,” he nodded. David rose, crossing to the door and waiting while the boy slowly wriggled out from under the bed and pushed messy curls out of his eyes. He gave Baden a gentle squeeze of his shoulders and guided him toward the kitchen. It wasn’t a fix or a miracle, but the sooner Baden made it through the trip, the sooner the boy would be back home again. He didn’t really like it, either. And he was sure he’d hear all about it for days until Baden left and for weeks afterward. All they could do was prepare Baden as best they could and be there for him when he came back. Privately, David would be glad to never hear about the boy’s mother again.


End file.
